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FATHER STAFFORD 


BY 

ANTHONY HOPE 

AUTHOR OF “ A MAN OF MARK.” 

u O 


3H 33 


NEW YORK 


CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY, 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue, New York. 



N> 


TZa 

A.al^rF 


Copyright, 1891, 

BY 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 






THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS 
RAHWAY, N. J, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

I. Eugene Lane and his Guests, 


# 


PAGE 

I 

II. 

New Faces and Old Feuds, 

• 

• 

• 

17 

III. 

Father Stafford Changes his 

Habits, 

AND Mr. 



Haddington his Views, 

. 

. 

. 

33 

IV. 

Sir Roderick Ayre Inspects 

Mr. 

Morewood’s 



Masterpiece, . 


• 

• 

5 i 

V. 

How Three Gentlemen Acted 

FOR 

THE 

Best, . 

67 

VI. 

Father Stafford Keeps Vigil, 

. 

• 

. 

85 

VII. 

An Early Train and a Morning’s Amusement, . 

99 


VIII. Stafford in Retreat, and Sir Roderick in Action, 114 

IX. The Battle of Baden, 138 

X. Mr. Morewood is Moved to Indignation, . 154 

XI. Waiting Lady Claudia’s Pleasure, . . . 173 

XII. Lady Claudia is Vexed with Mankind, . . 188 

XIII. A Lover’s Fate and a Friend’s Counsel, . . 207 

XIV. Some People are as Fortunate as they Deserve 

to Be, 227 

XV. An End and a Beginning, 241 








FATHER STAFFORD. 


CHAPTER I. 

EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESTS. 

The world considered Eugene Lane a very- 
fortunate young man ; and if youth, health, 
social reputation, a seat in Parliament, a large 
income, and finally the promised hand of an 
acknowledged beauty can make a man happy, 
the world was right. It is true that Sir Roderick 
Ayre had been heard to pity the poor chap on 
the ground that his father had begun life in 
the workhouse ; but everybody knew that Sir 
Roderick was bound to exalt the claims of 
birth, inasmuch as he had to rely solely upon 
them for a reputation, and discounted the 
value of his opinion accordingly. After all, it 
was not as if the late Mr. Lane had ended life 
in the undesirable shelter in question. On the 
contrary, his latter days had been spent in the 
handsome mansion of Millstead Manor; and, 
as he lay on his deathbed, listening to the 
Rectors gentle homily on the vanity of riches, 
his eyes could wander to the window and 
survey a wide tract of land that he called his 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


own, and left, together with immense sums of 
money, to his son, subject only to a jointure 
for his wife. It is hard to blame the tired old 
man if he felt, even with the homily ringing 
in his ears, that he had not played his part in 
the world badly. 

Millstead Manor was indeed the sort of 
place to raise a doubt as to the utter vanity of 
riches. It was situated hard by the little 
village of Millstead, that lies some forty miles 
or so northwest of London, in the middle of 
rich country. The neighborhood afforded 
shooting, fishing, and hunting, if not the best 
of their kind, yet good enough to satisfy 
reasonable people. The park was large and 
well wooded ; the house had insisted on re- 
maining picturesque in spite of Mr. Lane’s 
improvements, and by virtue of an indelible 
stamp of antiquity had carried its point. A 
house that dates from Elizabeth is not to be 
entirely put to shame by one or two unblushing 
French windows and other trifling barbarities 
of that description, more especially when it is 
kept in countenance by a little church of still 
greater age, nestling under its wing in a 
manner that recalled the good old days when 
the lord of the manor was lord of the souls 
and bodies of his tenants. Even old Mr. Lane 


EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESTS . 3 

had been mellowed by the influence of his new 
home, and before his death had come to play 
the part of Squire far more respectably than 
might be imagined. Eugene sustained the role 
with the graceful indolence and careless effi- 
ciency that marked most of his doings. 

He stood one Saturday morning in the 
latter part of July on the steps that led from 
the terrace to the lawn, holding a letter in his 
hand and softly whistling. In appearance he 
was not, it must be admitted, an ideal Squire, 
for he was but a trifle above middle height, 
rather slight, and with the little stoop that tells 
of the man who is town-bred and by nature 
more given to indoor than outdoor exercises ; 
but he was a good-looking fellow for all that, 
with a bright humorous face, — though at this 
moment rather a bored one,— large eyes set well 
apart, and his proper allowance of brown hair 
and white teeth. Altogether, it may safely be 
said that not even Sir Roderick’s nose could 
have sniffed the workhouse in the young mas- 
ter of Millstead Manor. 

Still whistling, Eugene descended the steps 
and approached a group of people sitting under 
a large copper-beech tree. A still, hot summer 
morning does not incline the mind or the body 
to activity, and all of them had sunk into 


4 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


attitudes of ease. Mrs. Lane’s work was 
reposing in her lap ; her sister, Miss Jane 
Chambers, had ceased the pretense of reading ; 
the Rector was enjoying what he kept assuring 
himself was only just five minutes’ peace 
before he crossed over to his parsonage and his 
sermon ; Lady Claudia Territon and Miss 
Katharine Bernard were each in possession of 
a wicker lounge, while at their feet lay two 
young men in flannels, with lawn-tennis 
racquets lying idle by them. A large jug of 
beer close to the elbow of one of them com- 
pleted the luxurious picture that was framed in 
a light cloud of tobacco smoke, traceable to 
the person who also was obviously responsible 
for the beer. 

As Eugene approached, a sudden thought 
seemed to strike him. He stopped deliber- 
ately, and with great care lit a cigar. 

“ Why wasn’t I smoking, I wonder ! ” he 
said. “The sight of Bob Territon reminded 
me.” Then, as he reached them, raising his 
voice, he went on : 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, I am sorry to 
interrupt you, and with bad news.” 

“ What is the matter, dear ? ” asked Mrs. 
Lane, a gentle old lady, who having once had 
the courage to leave the calm of her father’s 


EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESTS. 5 

country vicarage to follow the doubtful for- 
tunes of her husband, was now reaping her 
reward in a luxury of which she had never 
dreamed. 

“With the arrival of the 4.15 this after- 
noon,” Eugene continued, “our placid life will 
be interrupted, and one of Mr. Eugene Lane, 
M.P.’s, celebrated Saturday to Monday parties 
(I quote from The Universe') will begin.” 

“Who’s coming?” asked Miss Bernard. 

Miss Bernard was the acknowledged beauty 
referred to in the opening lines of this chapter, 
whose love Eugene had been lucky enough to 
secure. Had Eugene not been absurdly rich 
himself, he might have been congratulated 
further on the prospective enjoyment of a nice 
little fortune as well as the lady’s favor. 

“ Is Rickmansworth coming?” put in Lady 
Claudia, before Eugene had time to reply to 
his fiancee. 

“ Be at peace,” he said, addressing Lady 
Claudia ; “ your brother is not coming. I 
have known Rickmansworth a long while, and 
I never knew him to be polite. He inquired 
by telegram, reply not paid, who were to be 
here. ' When I wired him, telling him whom I 
had theprivilegeof entertaining, andrequesting 
an immediate reply (not paid), he answered 


6 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


that he thought I must have enough Territons 
already, and he didn’t want to make another.” 

Neither Lady Claudia nor her brother 
Robert, who was the young man with the beer, 
seemed put out at this message. Indeed, the 
latter went so far as to say : 

“ Good ! Have some beer, Eugene ? ” 

“ But who is coming ? ” repeated Miss Kate. 
“ Really, Eugene, you might pay a little atten- 
tion to me.” 

“ Can’t, my dear Kate — not in public. It’s 
not good form, is it, Lady Claudia?” 

“ Eugene,” said Mrs. Lane, in a tone as 
nearly severe as she ever arrived at, “ if you 
wish your guests to have either dinner or beds, 
you will at once tell me who and how many 
they are.” 

“ My dear mother, they are in number five, 
composed as follows : First, the Bishop of 
Bellminster.” 

“ A most interesting man,” observed Miss 
Chambers. 

“ I am glad to hear it, Aunt Jane,” re- 
sponded Eugene. “ The Bishop is accom- 
panied by his wife. That makes two ; and 
then old Merton, who was at the Colonial 
Office, you know, and Morewood the painter 
make four.” 


EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESTS. 7 

“ Sir George Merton is a Radical, isn’t he?” 
asked Lady Claudia severely. 

“ He tries to be,” said Eugene. “ Shall I 
order a carriage to take you to the station ? I 
think, you know, you can stand it, with Had- 
dington’s help.” 

Mr. Spencer Haddington, the other young 
man in flannels, was a very rising member of 
the Conservative party, of which Lady Claudia 
conceived herself to be a pillar. Identity of 
political views, in Mr. Haddington’s opinion, 
might well pave the way to a closer union, and 
this hope accounted for his havjng consented 
to pair with Eugene, who sat on the other side, 
and spend the last week in idleness at Millstead. 

“Well,” said Mr. Robert Territon, “it 
sounds slow, old man.” 

“Candid family, the Territons,” remarked 
Eugene to the copper-beech. 

“ Who’s the fifth ? you’ve only told us four,” 
said Kate, who always stuck to the point. 

“ The fifth is ” Eugene paused a 

moment, as though preparing a sensation ; 
“ the fifth is — Father Stafford.” 

Now it was a remarkable thing that all the 
ladies looked up quickly and re-echoed the 
name of the last guest in accents of awe, 
whereas the men seemed unaffected. 


8 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


“ Why, where did you pick him up ? ” 
asked Lady Claudia. 

“ Pick him up ! I’ve known Charley Staf- 
ford since we were both that high. We were 
at Harrow and at Oxford together. Rickmans- 
worth knows him, Bob. You didn’t come till 
he’d left.” 

“Why is the gentleman called ‘Father’?” 
said Bob. 

“ Because he is a priest,” Miss Chambers 
answered. “And really, Mr. Territon, you’re 
very ignorant. Everybody knows Father 
Stafford. You do, Mr. Haddington?” 

“ Yes,” said Haddington, “ Fve heard of 
him. He’s an Anglican Father, isn’t he ? Had 
a big parish somewhere down the Mile End 
Road?” 

“ Yes,” said Eugene. “ He’s an old and a 
great friend of mine. He’s quite knocked up, 
poor old chap, and had to get leave of absence ; 
and Fve made him promise to come and stay 
here for a good part of the time, to rest.” 

“Then he’s not going off again on Mon- 
day ? ” asked Mrs. Lane. 

“Oh, I hope not. He’s writing a book or 
something, that will keep him from being 
restless.” 

“ How charming ! ” said Lady Claudia. 


EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESTS. 9 

“ Don’t you dote on him, Kate ? Please, Mr. 
Lane, may I stay too ? ” 

“ By the way,” said Eugene, “ Stafford has 
taken a vow of celibacy.” 

“ I knew that,” said Lady Claudia imper- 
turbably. 

Eugene looked mournful ; Bob Territon 
groaned tragically ; but Lady Claudia was 
quite unmoved, and, turning to the Rector, who 
sat smiling benevolently on the young people, 
asked : 

“ Do you know Father Stafford, Dr. 
Dennis ? ” 

“No. I should be much interested in 
meeting him. I’ve heard so much of his work 
and his preaching.” 

“Yes,” said Lady Claudia, “and his pen- 
ances and fasting, and so on.” 

“ Poor old Stafford ! ” said Eugene. “ It’s 
quite enough for him that a thing’s pleasant to 
make it wrong.” 

“ Not your philosophy, Master Eugene ! ” 
said the Rector. 

“No, Doctor.” 

“ But what’s this vow ? ” asked Kate. 

“ There’s no such thing as a binding vow 
of celibacy in the Anglican Church,” announced 
Miss Chambers. 


io FATHER STAFFORD. 

“ Is that right, Doctor?” said Lady 
Claudia. 

“ God bless me, my dear,” said the Rector, 
“ I don’t know. There wasn’t in my time.” 

“ But, Eugene, surely I’m right,” persisted 
Aunt Jane. “His Bishop can dispense him 
from it, can’t he ? ” 

“ Don’t know,” answered Eugene. “ He 
says he can.” 

“ Who says he can ? ” 

“Why, the Bishop !” 

“ Well, then, of course he can.” 

“All right,” said Eugene; “only Stafford 
doesn’t think so. Not that he wants to be re- 
leased. He doesn’t care a bit about women — 
very ungratefully, as they’re all mad about him.” 

“ That’s very rude, Eugene,” said Kate, in 
reproving tones. “ Admiration for a saint is 
not madness. Shall we go in, Claudia, and 
leave these men to pipes and beer ?” 

“ One for you, Rector ! ” chuckled Bob 
Territon, who knew no reverence. 

The two girls departed somewhat scornfully, 
arm in arm, and the Rector too rose with a 
sigh, and accompanied the elder ladies to the 
house, whither they were going to meet the 
pony carriage that stood at the hall door. A 
daily drive was part of Mrs, Lane’s ritual, 


EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESl'S . 


II 


“ By the way, you fellows,” Eugene re- 
sumed, throwing himself on the grass, “ I may 
as well mention that Stafford doesn’t drink, or 
eat meat, or smoke, or play cards, or anything 
else.” 

“ What a peculiar beggar ! ” said Bob. 

“Yes, and he’s peculiar in another way,” 
said Eugene, a little dryly ; “ he particularly 
objects to any remark being made on his 
habits — 1 mean on what he eats and drinks 
and so on.” 

“ There I agree,” said Bob ; “ I object to 
any remarks on what I eat and drink and 
he took a long pull at the beer. 

“You must treat him with respect, young 
man. Haddington, I know, will study him as 
a phenomenon. I can’t protect him against 
that.” 

Mr. Haddington smiled and remarked that 
such revivals of medievalism were interesting, 
if morbid ; and having so delivered himself, 
he too went his way. 

“ That chap’s considered very clever, isn’t 
he ? ” asked Bob of his host, indicating Had- 
dington’s retreating figure. 

“ Very, 1 believe,” said Eugene. “ He’s a 
cuckoo, you see.” 

“ Dashed if I do,” said Bob. 


12 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ He steals other birds’ nests — eggs and 
all.” 

“ Your natural history is a trifle mixed, old 
fellow ; kindly explain.” 

‘‘Well, he’s a thief of ideas. Never was 
the father of one himself, and gets his living 
by kidnaping.” 

“ I never knew such a chap ! ” ejaculated 
Bob helplessly. “ Why can’t you say plainly 
that you think he’s an ass ?” 

“ I don’t,” said Eugene. “ He’s by no 
means an ass. He’s a very clever fellow. 
But he lives on other men’s ideas ! ” 

“ Oh ! come and play billiards.” 

“ I can’t,” said Eugene gravely. “ I’m go- 
ing to read poetry to Kate.” 

“ By Jove, does she make you do that?” 

Eugene nodded sadly, and Bob went off 
into a fit of obtrusive chuckling. Eugene cast 
a large cushion dexterously at him and caught 
him just in the mouth, and, still sadly, rose 
and went in search of his lady-love. 

“ Why the dickens does he marry that 
girl ?” exclaimed Bob. “ It beats me.” 

Bob Territon was not the only person in 
whom Eugene’s engagement to Kate Bernard 
inspired some surprise. But neither he nor 
any one else succeeded in formulating very 


EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESTS. 13 

definite reasons for the feeling - . Kate was a 
beauty, and a beauty of a type undeniably 
orthodox and almost aristocratic. She was 
tall and slight, her nose was the least trifle 
arched, her fingers tapered, and so, it was be- 
lieved, did her feet. Her hair was golden, 
her mouth was small, and her accomplish- 
ments considerable. From her childhood she 
had been considered clever, and had vindicated 
her reputation by gaining more than one cer- 
tificate from the various examining bodies 
which nowadays go up and down seeking 
whom they may devour. All these varied ex- 
cellencies Eugene had had full opportunities of 
appreciating, for Kate was a distant cousin of 
his on the mothers side, and had spent a 
large part of the last few years at the Manor. 
It was, in fact, so obviously the duty of the 
two young people to fall in love with one 
another, that the surprise exhibited by their 
friends could only have been based on a some- 
what cynical view of humanity. The cynics 
ought to have considered themselves confuted 
by the fait accompli , but they refused to do so, 
and, led by Sir Roderick Ayre, had been known 
to descend to laying five to four against the 
permanency of the engagement — an obviously 
coarse and improper proceeding. 


14 


FA THER STAFFORD. 


It is possible that the odds might have risen 
a point or two, had these reprehensible per- 
sons been present at a little scene which 
occurred on the terrace, whither the girls had 
betaken themselves, and Eugene in his turn 
repaired when he had armed himself with 
Tennyson. As he approached Claudia rose to 
go and leave the lovers to themselves. 

“ Don’t go, Lady Claudia,” said Eugene. 
“ I’m not going to read anything you ought 
not to hear.” 

Of course it was the right thing for Claudia 
to go, and she knew it. But she was a mis- 
chievous body, and the sight of a cloud on 
Kate’s brow had upon her exactly the oppo- 
site effect to what it ought to have had. 

“ You don’t really want me to stay, do you ? 
Wouldn’t you two rather be alone?” she 
asked. 

“ Much rather have you,” Eugene answered. 

Kate rose with dignity. 

“ We need not discuss that,” she said. “ I 
have letters to write, and am going indoors.” 

“ Oh, I say, Kate, don’t do that ! I came 
out on purpose to read to you.” 

“ Lady Claudia is quite ready to make an 
audience for you,” was the chilling reply, as 
Kate vanished through the open door, 


EUGENE LANE AND HIS GUESTS. 


*5 


“ There, you’ve done it now ! ” said Eugene. 
“ You really ought not to insist on staying.” 

“ I’m so sorry, Mr. Lane. But it’s all your 
fault.” And Claudia tried to make her face 
assume a look of gravity. 

A pause ensued, and then they both 
smiled. 

“What were you going to read?” asked 
Claudia. 

“ Oh, Tennyson — always read Tennyson. 
Kate likes it, because she thinks it’s simple.” 

“You flatter yourself that you see the 
deeper meaning?” 

Eugene smiled complacently. 

“And you mean Kate doesn’t? I’m glad 
I’m not engaged to you, Mr. Lane, if that’s the 
kind of thing you say.” 

Eugene opened his mouth, shut it again, 
and then said blandly. 

“ So am I.” 

“ Thank you ! You need not be afraid.” 

“ If I were engaged to you, I mightn’t like 
you so well.” 

A slight blush became visible on Claudia’s 
usually pale cheek. 

Eugene looked away toward the horizon. 

“ I like the way quite pale people blush,” he 
said. 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


1 6 


“What do you want, Mr. Lane?” 

“Ah! I see you appreciate my character. 
I want many things I can’t have — a great 
many.” 

“No doubt,” said Claudia, still blushing 
under the mournful gaze which accompanied 
those words. “ Do you want anything you 
can have ? ” 

“ Yes ! I want you to stay several more 
weeks.” 

“ I’m going to stay,” said Claudia. 

“ How kind ! ” exclaimed Eugene. 

“ Do you know why ? ” 

“ My modesty forbids me to think.” 

“ I want to see a lot of Father Stafford ! 
Good-by, Mr. Lane. I’ll leave you to your 
private and particular understanding of 
Tennyson.” 

“Claudia!” 

“ Hold your tongue,” she whispered, in 
tones of exasperation. “ It’s very wicked 
and very impertinent — and the library door’s 
open, and Kate’s in there ! ” 

Eugene fell back in his chair with a 
horrified look, and Claudia rushed into the 
house. 


CHAPTER II. 

NEW FACES AND OLD FEUDS. 

There was, no doubt, some excuse for the 
interest that the ladies at Millstead Manor had 
betrayed on hearing the name of Father 
Stafford. In these days, when the discussion 
of theological topics has emerged from the 
study into the street, there to jostle persons 
engaged in their lawful business, a man who 
makes for himself a position as a prominent 
champion of any view becomes, to a consider- 
able extent, a public character; and Charles 
Stafford’s career had excited much notice. Al- 
though still a young man but little past thirty, 
he was adored by a powerful body of fol- 
lowers, and received the even greater compli- 
ment of hearty detestation from all, both with- 
in and without the Church, to whom his views 
seemed dangerous and pernicious. He had 
administered ]a large parish with distinction ; 
he had written a treatise of profound patristic 
learning and uncompromising sacerdotal pre- 
tensions. He had defended the institution of 
a celibate priesthood, and was known to have 
treated the Reformation with even less respect 
than it has been of late accustomed to receive. 


17 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


18 

He had done more than all this : he had 
impressed all who met him with a character of 
absolute devotion and disinterestedness, and 
there were many who thought that a successor 
to the saints might be found in Stafford, if 
anywhere in this degenerate age. Yet though 
he was, or was thought to be, all this, his 
friends were yet loud in declaring — and ever 
foremost among them Eugene Lane — that a 
better, simpler, or more modest man did not 
exist. For the weakness of humanity, it may 
be added that Staffords appearance gave him 
fully the external aspect most suitable to the 
part his mind urged him to play ; for he was 
tall and spare ; his fine-cut face, clean shaven, 
displayed the penetrating eyes, prominent 
nose, and large mobile mouth that the memory, 
associates with pictures of Italian prelates who 
were also statesmen. These personal charac- 
teristics, combined with his attitude on Church 
matters, caused him to be familiarly known 
among the flippant by the nickname of the Pope. 

Eugene Lane stood upon his hearthrug, 
conversing with the Bishop of Bellminster and 
covertly regarding his betrothed out r of the 
corner of an apprehensive eye. They had not 
met alone since the morning, and he was 
naturally anxious to find out whether that 


NE IV FACES AMD OLD FEUDS. 


19 


unlucky “Claudia” had been overheard. 
Claudia herself was listening to the conversa- 
tion of Mr. Morewood, the well-known artist ; 
and Stafford, who had only arrived just before 
dinner, was still busy in answering Mrs. Lane’s 
questions about his health. Sir George Merton 
had failed at the last moment, “ like a Radical,” 
said Claudia. 

“ I am extremely interested in meeting 
your friend Father Stafford,” said the Bishop. 

“ Well, he’s a first-rate fellow,” replied 
Eugene. “ I’m sure you’ll like him.” 

“You young fellows call him the Pope, 
don’t you ? ” asked his lordship, who was a 
genial man. 

“Yes. You don’t mind, do you? It’s not 
as if we' called him the Archbishop of Canter- 
bury, you know.” 

“ I shouldn’t consider even that very per- 
sonal,” said the Bishop, smiling. 

Dinner was announced. Eugene gave the 
Bishop’s wife his arm, whispering to Claudia 
as he passed, “Age before impudence”; and 
that young lady found that she had fallen to 
the lot of Stafford, whereat she was well 
pleased. Kate was paired with Haddington, 
and Mr. Morewood with Aunt Jane. The 
Bishop, of course, escorted the hostess. 


20 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ And who,” said he, almost as soon as he 
was comfortably settled to his soup, “ is the 
young lady sitting by our friend the Father — 
the one, I mean, with dark hair, not Miss 
Bernard ? I know her.” 

“That’s Lady Claudia Territon,” said Mrs. 
Lane. “Very pretty, isn’t she? and really a 
very good girl.” 

“ Do you say ‘really’ because, unless you 
did, I shouldn’t believe it?” he asked, with a 
smile. 

Mrs. Lane had been moved by this idea, 
but not consciously and, a little distressed at 
suspecting herself of an unkindness, entertained 
the Bishop with an entirely fanciful catalogue 
of Claudia’s virtues, which, being overheard 
by Bob Territon, who had no lady and was 
at liberty to listen, occasioned him immense 
entertainment. 

Claudia, meanwhile, was drifting into a 
state of some annoyance. Stafford was very 
courteous and attentive, but he drank nothing, 
and apparently proposed to dine off dry bread. 
When she began to question him about his 
former parish, instead of showing the gratitude 
that might be expected, he smiled a smile that 
she found pleasure in describing as inscrutable, 
and said : 


NEW FACES AND OLD FEUDS . 


21 


“ Please don’t talk down to me, Lady 
Claudia.” 

“ I have been taught,” responded Claudia, 
rather stiffly, “ to talk about subjects in which 
my company is presumably interested.” 

Stafford looked at her with some surprise. 
It must be admitted that he had become used 
to more submission than Claudia seemed in- 
clined to give him. 

“ I beg your pardon. You are quite right. 
Let us talk about it.” 

“No, I won’t. We will talk about you. 
You’ve been very ill, Father Stafford ? ” 

“ A little knocked up.” 

“ I don’t wonder ! ” she said, with an irri- 
tated glance at his plate, which was now 
furnished with a potato. 

He saw the glance. 

“It wasn’t that,” he said ; “that suits me 
very well.” 

Claudia knew that a pretty girl may say 
most things, so she said : 

“ I don’t believe it. You’re killing your- 
self. Why don’t you do as the Bishop does ? ” 

The Bishop, good man, was at this moment 
drinking champagne. 

“ Men have different ways of living,” he 
answered evasively. 


22 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ I think yours is a very bad way. Why 
do you do it ?” 

“ I’m sure you will forgive me if I decline 
to discuss the question just now. I notice 
you take a little wine. You probably would 
not care to explain why.” 

“ I take it because I like it.” 

“ And I don’t take it because I like it.” 

Claudia had a feeling that she Was being 
snubbed, and her impression was confirmed 
when Stafford, [a moment afterward, turned 
to Kate Bernard, who sat on his left hand, 
and was soon deep in reminiscences of old 
visits to the Manor, with which Kate con- 
trived to intermingle a little flattery that 
Stafford recognized only to ignore. They 
had known one another well in earlier days, 
and Kate was immensely pleased at finding 
her playfellow both famous and not forgetful. 

Eugene looked on from his seat at the 
foot of the table with silent wonder. Here 
was a man who might and indeed ought to 
talk to Claudia, and yet was devoting himself 
to Kate. 

“ I suppose it’s on the same principle that 
he takes water instead of champagne,” he 
thought ; but the situation amused him, and 
he darted at Claudia a look that conveyed 


NEW FACES AND OLD FEUDS. 23 

to that young lady the urgent idea that she 
was, as boys say, “ dared ” to make Father 
Stafford talk to her. This was quite enough. 
Helped by the unconscious alliance of Had- 
dington, who thought Miss Bernard had let 
him alone quite long enough, she seized her 
opportunity, and said in the softest voice : 

“ Father Stafford ? ” 

Stafford turned his head, and found fixed 
upon him a pair of large, dark eyes, brimming 
over with mingled contrition and admiration. 

“ I am so sorry — but — but I thought you 
looked so ill.” 

Stafford was unpleasantly conscious of 
being human. The triumph of wickedness is 
a spectacle from which we may well avert our 
eyes. Suffice it to say that a quarter of an 
hour later Claudia returned Eugenes glance 
with a look of triumph and scorn. 

Meanwhile, trouble had arisen between the 
Bishop and Mr. Morewood. Morewood was an 
artist of great ability, originality, and skill ; 
and if he had not attained the honors of the 
Academy, it was perhaps more his own fault 
than that of the exalted body in question, as 
he always treated it with an ostentatious con- 
tumely. After all, the Academy must be 
allowed its feelings. Moreover, his opinions 


24 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


on many subjects were known to be extreme, 
and he was not chary of displaying them. 
He was sitting on Mrs. Lane’s left, opposite 
the Bishop, and the latter had started with his 
hostess a discussion of the relation between 
religion and art. All went harmoniously fora 
time; they agreed that religion had ceased to 
inspire art, and that it was a very regrettable 
thing ; and there, one would have thought the 
subject — not being a new one — might well have 
been left. Suddenly, however, Mr. Morewood 
broke in : 

“ Religion has ceased to inspire art because 
it has lost its own inspiration, and having so 
ceased, it has lost its only use.” 

The Bishop was annoyed. A well-bred 
man himself, he disliked what seemed to him 
ill-bred attacks on opinions which his position 
proclaimed him to hold. 

“You cannot expect me to assent to either 
of your propositions, Mr. Morewood,” he said. 
“ If I believed them, you know, I should not be 
in the place I am.” 

“ They’re true, for all that,” retorted More- 
wood. “ And what is it to be traced to ? ” 

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said poor Mrs. 
Lane. 

“Why, to Established Churches, of course. 


NEW FACES AND OLD FEUDS. 25 

As long as fancies and imaginary beings are 
left free to each man to construct or destroy 
as he will, — or again, I may say, as long as 
they are fluid, — they subserve the pleasureable- 
ness of life. But when you take in hand and 
make a Church out of them, and all that, what 
can you expect ? ” 

“ I think you must be confusing the Church 
with the Royal Academy,” observed the Bishop, 
with some acidity. 

“ There would be plenty of excuse for me, 
if I did,” replied Morewood. “ There’s no 
truth and no zeal in either of them.” 

“ If you please, we will not discuss the 
truth. But as to the zeal, what do you say to 
the example of it among us now?” And the 
Bishop, lowering his voice, indicated Stafford. 

Morewood directed a glance at him. 

“ He’s mad ! ” he said briefly. 

“ I wish there were a few more with the 
same mania about.” 

“ You don’t believe all he does ? ” 

“ Perhaps I can’t see all he does,” said the 
Bishop, with a touch of sadness. 

“ How do you mean ?” 

“ I have been longer in the cave, and per- 
haps I have peered too much through cave- 
spectacles.” 


2 6 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


Morewood looked at him for a moment. 

“ I’m sorry if I’ve been rude, Bishop,” he 
said more quietly, “ but a man must say what 
he thinks.” 

“ Not at all times,” said the Bishop ; and 
he turned pointedly to Mrs. Lane and began 
to discuss indifferent matters. 

Morewood looked round with a discontented 
air. Miss Chambers was mortally angry with 
him and had turned to Bob Territon, whom 
she was trying to persuade to come to a bazaar 
at Bellminster on the Monday. Bob was re- 
calcitrant, and here too the atmosphere be- 
came a little disturbed. The only people 
apparently content were Kate and Haddington 
and Lady Claudia and Stafford. To the rest 
it was a relief when Mrs. Lane gave the signal 
to rise. 

Matters improved, however, in the drawing- 
room. The Bishop and Stafford were soon 
deep in conversation ; and Claudia, thus de- 
prived of her former companion, condescended 
to be very gracious to Mr. Morewood, in the 
secret hope that that eccentric genius would 
make her the talk of the studios next summer 
by painting her portrait. Haddington and 
Bob had vanished with cigars ; and Eugene, 
looking round and seeing that all was peace, 


NEW FACES AND OLD FEUDS. 27 

said to himself in an access of dutifulness, 
“ Now for it ! ” and crossed over to where Kate 
sat, and invited her to accompany him into the 
garden. 

Kate acquiesced, but showed little other 
sign of relaxing her attitude of lofty displeas- 
ure. She left Eugene to begin. 

“ I’m awfully sorry, Kate, if you were 
vexed this morning.” 

Absolute silence. 

“ But, you see, as host here, I couldn’t very 
well turn out Lady Claudia.” 

"Why don’t you say Claudia?” asked 
Kate, in sarcastic tones. 

Eugene felt inclined to fly, but he recog- 
nized that his only chance lay in pretending 
innocence when he had it not. 

“ Are we to quarrel about a trifle of that 
sort ? ” he asked ; “ a girl I’ve known like a 
sister for the last ten years !” 

Kate smiled bitterly. 

“ Do you really suppose that deceives me ? 
Of course I am not afraid of your falling in 
love with Claudia ; but it’s very bad taste to 
have anything at all like flirtation with her.” 

“ Quite right ; it is. It shall not occur 
again. Isn’t that enough ? ” 

Kate, in spite of her confidence, was not 


28 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


anxious to drive Eugene with too tight a rein, 
so, with a nearer approach to graciousness, she 
allowed it to appear that it was enough. 

“Then come along,” he said, passing his 
arm around her waist, and running her briskly 
along the terrace to a seat at the end, where 
he deposited her. 

“ Really, Eugene, one would think you 
were a schoolboy. Suppose any one had seen 
us !” 

“ Some one did,” said Eugene composedly, 
lighting his cigar. 

“Who?” 

“ Haddington. He was sitting on the step 
of the sun-dial, smoking.” 

“ How annoying ! What’s he doing there ? ” 

“ If you ask me, I expect he’s waiting on 
the chance of Lady Claudia coming out.” 

“ I should think it very unlikely,” said Kate, 
with an impatient tap of her foot ; “ and I wish 
you wouldn’t do such things.” 

Eugene smiled ; and having thus, as he 
conceived, partly avenged himself, devoted the 
next ten minutes to orthodox love-making, with 
the warmth of which Kate had no reason to be 
discontent. On the expiration of that time he 
pleaded his obligations as a host, and they re- 
turned to the house, Kate much mollified, 


NEW FACES AND OLD FEUDS. 29 

Eugene with the peaceful but fatigued air that 
tells of duty done. 

Before going to bed, Stafford and Eugene 
managed to get a few words together. Leav- 
ing the other men, except the Bishop, who was 
already at rest, in the billiard-room, they 
strolled out together on to the terrace. 

“Well, old man, how are you getting on?” 
asked Eugene. 

“ Capitally ! stronger every day in body 
and happier in mind. I grumbled a great deal 
when I first broke down, but now I’m not sure 
a rest isn’t good for me. You can stop and 
have a look where you are going to.” 

“And you think you can stand it?” 

“Stand what, my dear fellow?” 

“ Why, the life you lead — a life studiously 
emptied of everything that makes life pleas- 
ant.” 

“Ah! you are like Lady Claudia!” said 
Stafford, smiling. “ I can tell you, though, 
what I can hardly tell her. There are some 
men who can make no terms with the body. 
Does that sound very mediaeval ? I mean men 
who, unless they are to yield utterly to pleas- 
ure, must have no dealings with it.” 

“ You boycott pleasure for fear of being too 
fond of it ? ” 


30 FATHER STAFFORD. 

“Yes; I don’t lay down that rule for 
everybody. For me it is the right and only 
one.” 

“ You think it right for a good many people, 
though ? ” 

“Well, you know, the many-headed beast 
is strong.” 

“ For me ? ” 

“ Wait till I get at you from the pulpit.” 

“ No ; tell me now.” 

“ Honestly ?” 

“Of course; I take that for granted.” 

“Well, then, old fellow,” said he, laying a 
hand on Eugene’s arm, with a slight gesture of 
caress not unusual with him, “ in candor and 
without unkindness, yes !” 

“ I could never do it,” said Eugene. 

“ Perhaps not — or, at least, not yet.” 

“ Too late or too early, is it ?” 

“ It may be so, but I will not say so.” 

“You know I think you’re all wrong?” 

“ I know.” 

“You will fail.” 

“ God forbid ! but if he pleases ” 

“ After all, what are meat, wine, and — and 
so on for ? 

“ That argument is beneath you, Eugene.” 

“So it is. I beg your pardon. I might 


NEW FACES AND OLD FEUDS. 3 1 

as well ask what the hangman is for if nobody 
is to be hanged. However, I’m determined 
that you shall enjoy yourself for a week here, 
whether you like it or not.” 

Stafford smiled gently and bade him good- 
night. A moment later Bob Territon emerged 
from the open windows of the billiard-room. 

“ Of all dull dogs, Haddington’s the worst ; 
however, I’ve won five pound of him ! Hist ! 
Is the Father here ?” 

“ I am glad to say he is not.” 

“ Oh ! Have you squared it with Miss 
Kate? I saw something was up.” 

“ Miss Bernard’s heart, Bob, and mine again 
beat as one.” 

“ What was it particularly about ? ” 

“ An immaterial matter.” 

“ I say, did you see the Father and 
Claudia ? ” 

“No. What do you mean?” 

“Gammon! I tell you what, Eugene, if 
Claudia really puts her back into it, I wouldn’t 
give much for that vow of celibacy.” 

“Bob,” said Eugene, “you don’t know 
Stafford ; and your expression about your 
sister is— well, shall I say lacking in refine- 
ment?” 

“ Haddington didn’t like it.” 


32 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Damn Haddington, and you too!” said 
Eugene impatiently, walking away. 

Bob looked after him with a chuckle, and 
exclaimed enigmatically to the silent air, “ Six 
to four, t. and o.” 


CHAPTER III. 


FATHER STAFFORD CHANGES HIS HABITS, AND 
MR. HADDINGTON HIS VIEWS. 

For sheer placid enjoyment and pleasant- 
ness of living, there is nothing like a sojourn 
in a well-appointed country house, peopled by 
well-assorted guests. The guests at Millstead 
Manor were not perhaps particularly well 
assorted ; but nevertheless the hours passed 
by in a round of quiet delights, and the long 
summer days seemed in no wise tedious. The 
Bishop and Mrs. Bartlett had reluctantly gone 
to open the bazaar and Miss Chambers went 
with them, but otherwise the party was un- 
changed ; for Morewood, who had come origi- 
nally only for two days, had begged leave to 
stay, received it on condition of showing due 
respect to everybody's prejudices, telegraphed 
for his materials, and was fitfully busy making 
sketches, not of Lady Claudia, to her undis- 
guised annoyance, but of Stafford, with whose 
face he had been wonderfully struck. Stafford 
himself was the only one of the party, besides 
his artistic tormentor, who had not abandoned 
himself to the charms of idleness. His great 
work was understood to make rapid progress 

33 


34 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


between six in the morning, when he always 
rose, and half-past nine, when the party as- 
sembled at breakfast ; and he was also busy 
in writing a reply to a daring person who had 
recently asserted in print that on the whole 
the less said about the Council of Chalcedon 
the better. 

“ The pope’s wild about it ! ” reported Bob 
Territon to the usual after-breakfast group on 
the lawn : “says the beggar’s impudence licks 
him.” 

“He shall not work any more,” exclaimed 
Claudia, darting into the house, whence she 
presently emerged, followed by Stafford, who 
resignedly sat himself down with them. 

Such forcible interruptions of his studies 
were by no means uncommon. Eugene, how- 
ever, who was of an observant turn, noticed — 
and wondered if others did — that the raids on 
his seclusion were much more apt to be success- 
ful when Claudia headed them than under other 
auspices. The fact troubled him, not only 
from certain unworthy feelings which he did 
his best to suppress, but also because he saw 
nothing but harm to be possible from any close 
rapprochement between Claudia and Stafford. 
Kate, on the contrary, seemed to him to have 
set herself the task of throwing them together ; 


FATHER STAFFORD AND MR. HADDINGTON. 35 ' 

with what motive he could not understand, 
unless it were the recollection of his ill-fated 
“ Claudia.” He did not think this explanation 
very convincing, for he was well aware that 
Kate’s scorn of Claudia’s attractions, as com- 
pared with her own, was perfectly genuine, 
and such a state of mind would not produce 
the certainly active efforts she put forth. In 
truth, Eugene, though naturally observant, 
was, like all men, a little blind where he himself 
was concerned ; and perhaps a shrewd spec- 
tator would have connected Haddington in 
someway with Miss Kate’s maneuvers. Such, 
at any rate, was the view of Bob Territon, and 
no doubt he would have expressed it with his 
usual frankness if he had not had his own 
reasons for keeping silence. 

Stafford’s state of mind was somewhat pecu- 
liar. A student from his youth, to whom invis- 
ible things had always seemed more real than 
visible, and hours of solitude better filled than 
busy days, he had had but little experience of 
that sort of humanity among which he found 
himself. A man may administer a cure of souls 
with marked efficiency in the Mile End Road, 
and yet find himself much at a loss when con- 
fronted with the latest products of .the West 
End. The renunciation of the world, except so 


3 6 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


far as he could aid in mending it, had seemed 
an easy and cheap price to pay for the guer- 
don he strove for, to one who had never seen 
how pleasant this wicked world can look in 
certain of its aspects. Hitherto, at school, 
at college, and afterward, he had resolutely 
turned away from all opportunities of enlarg- 
ing his experience in this direction. He had 
shunned society, and had taken great pains to 
restrict his acquaintance with the many devout 
ladies who had sought him out to the barest 
essentials of what ought to have been, if it 
was not always, their purpose in seeking 
him. The prince of this world was now pre- 
paring a more subtle attack ; and under the 
seeming compulsion of common prudence no 
less than of old friendship, he found himself 
flung into the very center of the sort of life 
he had with such pains avoided. It may be 
doubted whether he was not, like an unskillful 
swimmer, ignorant of his danger; but it is 
certain that, had he been able to search 
out his own heart with his former acute- 
ness of self-judgment, he would have found 
the first germs of inclinations and feel- 
ings to which he had been up till now a 
stranger. He would have discovered the birth 
of a new longing for pleasure, a growing 


FATHER STAFFORD AND MR. HADDINGTON. 37 

delight in the sensuous side of things; or 
rather, he would have become convinced that 
temptations of this sort, which had previously 
been in the main creatures of his own brain, 
postulated in obedience to the doctrines and 
literature in which he had been bred, had 
become self-assertive realities ; and that what 
had been set up only to be triumphantly 
knocked down had now taken a strong root of 
its own, and refused to be displaced by 
spiritual exercises or physical mortifications. 
Had he been able to pursue the analysis yet 
further, it may be that, even in these days, he 
would have found that the forces of this world 
were already beginning to personify them- 
selves for him in the attractive figure of 
Claudia Territon. As it was, however, this 
discovery was yet far from him. 

The function of passing a moral judgment 
on Claudia’s conduct at this juncture is one 
that the historian respectfully declines. It is 
easy to blame fair damsels for recklessness 
in the use of their dangerous weapons ; and if 
they take the censure to heart — which is not 
usually the case — easy again to charge them 
with self-consciousness or self-conceit. We do 
not know their temptations and may not 
presume to judge them. And it may well be 


38 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


thought that Claudia would have been guilty 
of an excessive appreciation of herself had her 
conduct been influenced by the thought that 
such a man as Stafford was likely to fall in 
love with her. Of the conscious design of 
attracting him she must be acquitted, for she 
acted under the force of a strong attraction 
exercised by him. Her mind was not entirely 
engrossed in the pleasures, and what she 
imagined to be the duties, of her station. She 
had a considerable, if untrained and erratic, 
instinct toward religion, and exhibited that 
leaning toward the mysterious and visionary 
which is the common mark of an acute mind 
that has not been presented with any methodi- 
cal course of training worthy of its abilities. 
Such a temperament could not fail to be 
powerfully influenced by Stafford ; and when 
an obvious and creditable explanation lies on 
the surface, it is an ungracious task to probe 
deeper in the hope of coming to something less 
praiseworthy. Claudia herself certainly under- 
took no such research. It was not her habit to 
analyze her motives ; and, if asked the reasons 
of her conduct, she would no doubt have replied 
that she sought Stafford because she liked him. 
Perhaps, if further pressed, she would have 
admitted that she found him occasionally a use- 


FATHER STAFFORD AND MR. HADDINGTON 39 

ful refuge against attentions from two other 
quarters which she found it necessary to avoid ; 
in the one case because she would have liked 
them, in the other for exactly the opposite 
reason. 

It cannot, however, be supposed that this 
latter line of diplomacy could be permanently 
successful. When you only meet your suitor 
at dances or operas, it may be no hard task to 
be always surrounded by a chevaux-de-frise of 
other admirers. We have all seen that 
maneuver brilliantly and patiently executed. 
But when you are staying in a country house 
with any man of average pertinacity, I make 
bold to say that nothing short of taking to bed 
can be permanently relied upon. If this is the 
case with the ordinary man, how much more 
does it hold good when the assailant is one 
like Haddington — a man of considerable 
address, unbounded persistence, and limitless 
complacency? There came a time when 
Claudia’s forced marches failed her, and she 
had to turn and give battle. When the mo- 
ment came she was prepared with an audacious 
plan of campaign. 

She had walked down to the village one 
morning, attended by Haddington and pro- 
tected by Bob, to buy for Mrs. Lane a fresh 


40 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


supply of worsted wool, a commodity appar- 
ently necessary to sustain that lady’s life, and 
was returning at peace, when Bob suddenly 
exclaimed : 

“ By Jove! Tobacco! Wait for me !” and, 
turning, fled back whence he came, at full 
speed. 

Claudia made an attempt at following him, 
but the weather was hot and the road dusty, 
and, confronted with the alternative of a tite- 
a-tite and a damaged personal appearance, she 
reluctantly chose the former. 

Haddington did not let the grass grow 
under his feet. “Well,” he said, “it won’t 
be unpleasant to rest a little while, will it ? 
Here’s a dry bank.” 

Claudia never wasted time in dodging the 
inevitable. She sat down. 

“I am very glad of this opportunity,” 
Haddington began, in such a tone as a man 
might use if he had just succeeded in moving 
the adjournment. “ It’s curious how little I 
have managed to see of you lately, Lady 
Claudia.” 

“ We meet at least five times a day, Mr. 
Haddington — breakfast, lunch, tea ” 

“ I mean when you are alone.” 

“ Oh! ” 


father Stafford and mr. Haddington. 41 

“ And yet you must know my great — my 
only object in being here is to see you.” 

“ T- he less I say the sooner it will be over,” 
thought Claudia, whose experience was con- 
siderable. 

“ You must have noticed my — my attach- 
ment. I hope it was without displeasure ?” 

This clearly called for an answer, but 
Claudia gave none. She sighed slightly and 
put up her parasol. 

“ Claudia, is there any hope for me ? I love 
you more ” 

“ Mr. Haddington,” said Claudia, “ this is 
a painful scene. I trust nothing in my con- 
duct has misled you. [This was known — how, 
I do not know — to her brothers as “ Claudia’s 
formula,” but it is believed not to be un- 
common.] But what you propose is utterly 
impossible.” 

“ Why do you say that ? Perhaps you do 
not know me well enough yet — but in time, 
surely ? ” 

“ Mr. Haddington,” said Claudia, “ let me 
speak plainly. Even if I loved you — which I 
don’t and never shall, for immense admiration 
for a man’s abilities is a different thing from 
love [Haddington looked somewhat soothed], 

I could never consent to accept the position of 


42 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


a pis-aller . That is not the Territon way.” 
And Lady Claudia looked very proud. 

“A pis-aller! What in the world do you 
mean ? ” 

“ Girls are not supposed to see anything. 
But do you think I imagine you would ever 
have honored me in this way unless a greater 
prize had been — had appeared to be out of 
reach ? ” 

This was not fair ; but it was near enough 
to the mark to make Haddington a little 
uneasy. Had Kate been free, he would cer- 
tainly have been in doubt. 

“ I bear no malice about that,” she con- 
tinued, smiling, “ only you mustn’t pretend 
to be broken-hearted, you know.” 

“ It is a great blow to me — a great blow.” 

Claudia looked as if she would like to say 
“ Fudge ! ” but restrained herself and, with the 
daring characteristic of her, placed her hand 
on his arm. 

“ I am so sorry, Mr. Haddington. How it 
must gall you to see their happiness ! I can 
understand you turning to me as if in self- 
protection. But you should not ask a lady to 
marry you because you’re piqued with another 
lady. It isn’t kind ; it isn’t, indeed.” 

Haddington was a little at a loss. 


FA THER STAFFORD AND MR. HADDINGTON. 43 

“ Indeed, you're wholly wrong, Lady 
Claudia. Indeed, if you come to that, I 
don’t see that they are particularly rapturous.” 

“ You don’t mean you think they’re 
unhappy ? Mr. Haddington, I am so 
grieved ! ” 

“ Do you mean to say you don’t agree 
with me ? ” 

“You mustn’t ask me. But, oh ! I’m so 
sorry you think so too. Isn’t it strange? So 
suited to one another — she so beautiful, he so 
clever, and both rich !” 

“ Miss Bernard is hardly rich, is she ?” 

“ Not as Mr. Lane is, of course. She seems 
rich to me — forty thousand pounds, I think. 
Ah, Mr. Haddington, if only you had met her 
sooner ! ” 

“ I shouldn’t have had much chance against 
Lane.” 

“Why do you say that? If you only 
knew ” 

“ What?” 

“ I mustn’t tell you. How sad that it’s too 
late ! ” 

“Is it?” 

“Of course. They’re engaged ! ” 

“ An engagement isn’t a marriage. If I 
thought ” 


44 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“Yes?” 

“ But I can’t think of that now. Good-by, 
Claudia. We may not meet again.” 

“Oh, you won’t go away? You mustn’t 
let me drive you away. Oh, please, Mr. Had- 
dington ! Think, if you go, it must all come 
out ! I should be so very, very distressed.” 

“If you ask me, I will try to stay.” 

“Yes, yes, stay — but forget all this. And 
never think again of the other — about them, I 
mean. You will stay ? ” 

“Yes, I will stay,” said Haddington. 

“ Unless it makes you too unhappy to see 
Eugene’s triumph in Kate’s love?” 

“ I don’t believe much in that. If that’s 
the only thing — but I must go. I see your 
brother coming up the hill.” 

“Yes, go ; and I’ll never tell that you tried 
me as — as a second string ! ” 

“ That’s very unjust ! ” he protested, but 
more weakly. 

“ No, it isn’t. I know your heart, and I do 
pity you.” 

“ Perhaps I shall not ask for pity, Lady 
Claudia ! ” 

“ Oh, you mustn’t think of that ! ” 

“It was you who put it in my head.” 

“ Oh, what have I done ? ” 


FA THER STAFFORD AND MR. HADDINGTON. 45 

Haddington smiled, and with a last squeeze 
of her hand turned and walked away. 

Claudia put her handkerchief into her 
pocket and went to meet her brother. 

Haddington returned alone to the house. 
Although suffering under a natural feeling of 
annoyance at discovering that he was not fore- 
most in Claudia’s heart, as he had led himself 
to suppose, he was yet keenly alive to the fact 
that the interview had its consolatory aspect. 
In the first place, there is a fiction that a lady 
who respects herself does not fall in love with 
a man whom she suspects to be in love with 
somebody else ; and Haddington’s mind, 
though of no mean order in some ways, 
was not of a sort to rise above fictions. He 
comforted his vanity with the thought that 
Claudia had, by a conscious effort, checked a 
nascent affection for him, which, if allowed 
unimpeded growth, would have developed into 
a passion. Again, that astute young lady had 
very accurately conjectured his state of mind, 
while her pledge of secrecy disposed of the 
difficulty in the way of a too rapid transfer of 
his attentions. If Claudia did not complain, 
nay, counseled such action, who had. a right 
to object ? It was true she had eagerly dis- 
claimed any intention of inciting him to try to 


4 6 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


break the ties that now bound Miss Bernard. 
But, he reflected, the important point was not 
the view she took of the morality of such an 
attempt, on which her authority was nought, 
but her opinion of its chances of success, which 
was obviously not wholly unfavorable. He 
did not trouble himself to inquire closely into 
any personal motive she may have had. It 
was enough for him that she, a person likely to 
be well informed, had allowed him to see that, 
to her thinking, the relations between the 
engaged pair were of a character to inspire in 
the mind of another aspirant hope rather than 
despair. 

Having reached this conclusion, Hadding- 
ton recognized that his first step must be to 
put Miss Bernard in touch with the position of 
affairs. It may seem a delicate matter to hint 
to your host’s fiancee that if she, on mature 
reflection, likes you better than him, there is 
still time ; but Haddington was not afflicted 
with delicacy. After all, in such a case a 
great deal depends upon the lady, and Had- 
dington, though doubtful how Kate would 
regard a direct proposal to break off her 
engagement, was yet tolerably confident that 
she would not betray him to Eugene. 

He found her seated on the terrace that 


FATHER STAFFORD A HD MR. HADDINGTON. 47 


was the usual haunt of the ladies in the fore- 
noon and the scene of Eugenes dutiful 
labors as reader-aloud. Kate was not look- 
ing amiable ; and scarce six feet from her 
there lay open on the ground a copy of the 
Laureate’s works. 

“ I hope I’m not disturbing you, Miss 
Bernard ? ” 

“ Oh, no. You see, I am alone. Mr. Lane 
was here just now, but he’s gone.” 

“ How’s that?” asked Haddington, seating 
himself. 

“ He got a telegram, read it, flung his book 
away, and rushed off.” 

“ Did he say what it was about ? ” 

“ No ; I didn’t ask him.” 

A pause ensued. It was a little difficult to 
make a start. 

“ And so you are alone ? ” 

“ Yes, as you see.” 

“ I am alone too. Shall we console one 
another ? ” 

“ I don’t want consolation, thanks,” said 
Kate, a little ungraciously. “ But,” she 
added more kindly, “you know I’m always 
glad of your company.” 

“ I wish I could think so.” 

“ Why don’t you think so ?” 


4 8 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Well, Miss Bernard, engaged people are 
generally rather indifferent to the rest of the 
world.” 

“ Even to telegrams ? ” 

“ Ah ! poor Lane ! ” 

“ I don’t think Mr. Lane is in much need 
of pity.” 

“ No — rather of envy.” 

Kate did not look displeased. 

“ Still, a man is to be pitied if he does not 
appreciate ” 

u Mr. Haddington ! ” 

“ I beg your pardon. I ought not to have 
said that. But it is hard — there, I am offend- 
ing you again ! ” 

“Yes, you must not talk like that. It’s 
wrong; it would be wrong even if you meant it.” 

“ Do you think I don’t mean it?” 

“ That would be very discreditable — but 
not so bad.” 

“You know I mean it,” he said, in a low 
voice. “ God knows I would have said nothing 
if ” 

“If what ? ” 

“ I shall offend you more than ever. But 
how can I stand by and see that?" and Had- 
dington pointed with fine scorn to the neglected 
book. 


FA THER STAFFORD AND MR. HADDINGTON. 49 

Kate was not agitated. She seldom was. 
In a tone of grave rebuke, she said : 

“ You must never speak like this again. I 
thought I saw something of it. [“ Good ! ” 
thought Haddington.] But whatever may be 
my lot, I am now bound to it. Pledges are 
not to be broken.” 

“ Are they not being virtually broken ? ” he 
asked, growing bolder as he saw she listened 
to him. 

Kate rose. 

“ You are not angry ? ” 

“ I cannot be angry if it is as you say. 
But please understand I cannot listen. It is 
not honorable. No — don’t say anything else. 
But you must go away.” 

Haddington made no further effort to stop 
her. He was well content. When a lady hears 
you hint that her betrothed is less devoted than 
you would be in his place, and merely says the 
giving of such a hint is wrong, it may be taken 
that her sole objection to it is on the score of 
morality ; and it is to be feared that objections 
based on this ground are not the most effica- 
cious in checking forward lovers. Perhaps 
Miss Bernard thought they were. Hadding- 
ton didn’t believe she did. 

“ Go away ? ” he said to himself. “Hardly! 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


5 ° 

The play is just beginning. Little Lady 
Claudia wasn’t far out.” 

It is very possible she was not far out in 
her estimation of Mr. Haddington’s character, 
as well as in her forecast of his prospects. But 
the fruits of her shrewdness on this point 
were happily hid from the gentleman con- 
cerned. 


CHAPTER IV. 

SIR RODERICK AYRE INSPECTS MR. MOREWOOD’s 
MASTERPIECE. 

About a fortnight later than the last re- 
corded incident two men were smoking on the 
lawn at Millstead Manor. One was More- 
wood ; the other had arrived only the day be- 
fore and was the Sir Roderick Ayre to whom 
reference has been made. 

“ Upon my word, Morewood,” said Sir 
Roderick, as the painter sat down by him, 
“ one can’t go anywhere without meeting 
you ! ” 

“ That’s since you took to intellectual com- 
pany,” said Morewood, grinning. 

11 I haven’t taken to intellectual company,” 
said Sir Roderick, with languid indignation. 
“ In the general upheaval, intellectual com- 
pany has risen in the scale.” 

“ And so has at last come up to your 
pinnacle ?” 

“ And so has reached me, where I have 
been for centuries.” 

“A sort of perpetual dove on Ararat?” 

“ My dear Morewood, I am told you know 
everything except the Bible. Why choose 
your allusions from the one unfamiliar source ? ” 

Si 


5 2 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ And how do you like your new neigh- 
bor?” 

“ What new neighbor ?” 

“ Intellect.” 

“Oh! well, as personified in you it’s a not 
unwholesome astringent. But we may take 
an overdose.” 

“ Depends on the capacity of the constitu- 
tion, of course,” said Morewood. 

“ One objectionable quality it has,” pursued 
Sir Roderick, apparently unheedful. 

“Yes?” 

“ A disposition toward what boys call 
* scoring.’ That will, no doubt, be eradicated 
as it rises more in society. Apropos , what are 
you doing down here ?” 

“ As an artist, I study your insolence pro- 
fessionally, Ayre, and it doesn’t annoy me. I 
came down here to do nothing. I have stayed 
to paint Stafford.” 

“ Ah ! is Stafford then a professional saint ?” 

“ He’s an uncommon fine fellow. You’re 
not fit to black his boots.” 

“ I am not fit to black anybody’s boots,” re- 
sponded Sir Roderick. “ It’s the other way. 
What’s he doing down here?” 

“ I don’t know. Says he’s writing a book. 
Do you know Lady Claudia well ? ” 


MR. MORE WOOD ’S MASTERPIECE. 53 

“Yes. Known her since she was a 
child.” 

“ She seems uncommonly appreciative.” 

“ Of Stafford ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Oh, well! it’s her way. It always has 
been the way of the Territons. They only 
began, you know, about three hundred years 
ago, and ever since ” 

“ Oh, I don’t want their history — a lot of 
scoundrels, no doubt, like all your old families. 
Only — I say, Ayre, I should like to show you 
a head of Stafford I’ve done.” 

“ I won’t buy it,” said Sir Roderick, with 
affected trepidation. 

“ You be damned ! ” said Morewood. “ But 
I should like to hear what you think of 
it.” 

“ What do he and the rest of them 
think ? ” 

“ I haven’t shown it to any one.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“Wait till you’ve seen it.” 

“ I should think Stafford would make rather 
a good head. He’s got just that ” 

“ Hush ! Here he comes ! ” 

As he spoke, Stafford and Claudia came up 
the drive and emerged on to the lawn. They 


54 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


did not see the others and appeared to be 
deep in conversation. Stafford was talking 
vehemently and Claudia listening with a look 
of amused mutiny on her face. 

“ He’s sworn off, hasn’t he ? ” asked Ayre. 

“ Yes.” 

“ She doesn’t care for him?” 

“ I don’t think so ; but a man can’t tell.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Ayre. “ What’s Eugene 
up to ? ” 

“Oh, you know he’s booked.” 

“ Kate Bernard ?” 

“ Yes.” 

“Tell you what, Morewood, I’ll lay 
you ” 

“ No, you won’t. Come and see the picture. 
It’s the finest thing — in its way — I ever did.” 

“ Going to exhibit it ? ” 

“ I’m going to work up and exhibit another 
I’ve done of him, not this one ; at least, I’m 
afraid he won’t stand this one.” 

“ Gad ! Have you painted him with horns 
and a tail ? ” 

Whereto Morewood answered only : 

“ Come and see.” 

As they went in, they met Eugene, hands 
in pockets and pipe in mouth, looking im- 
mensely bored. 


MR. MORE WOOD’S MASTERPIECE. 55 

“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?” said he. 
“Excuse the mode of address, but I’ve not 
seen a soul all the morning, and thought I 
must have dropped down somewhere in Africa. 
It’s monstrous! I ask about ten people to 
my house, and I never have a soul to speak to ! ” 

“Where’s Miss Bernard?” asked Ayre. 

“ Kate is learning constitutional principles 
from Haddington in the shrubbery. Lady 
Claudia is learning sacerdotal principles from 
Stafford in the shrubbery. My mother is 
learning equine principles from Bob Territon 
in the stables. You are learning immoral 
principles from Morewood on the lawn. I 
don’t complain, but is there anything a man 
can do ? ” 

“ Yes, there’s a picture to be seen — More- 
wood’s latest.” 

“ Good ! ” 

“ I don’t know that I shall show it to 
Lane.” 

“Oh, get out!” said Eugene. “I shall 
summon the servants to my aid. Who’s it 
of ? ” 

“ Stafford,” said Ayre. 

“ The pope in full canonicals ?” 

“ All right, Lane. But you’re a friend of 
his, and you mayn’t like it.” 


56 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


They entered the billiard-room, a long 
building that ran ' out from the west wing of 
the house. In the extreme end of it More- 
wood had extemporized a studio, attracted by 
the good light. 

“ Give me a good top-light,” he had said, 
“and I wouldn’t change places with an arch- 
angel ! ” 

“Your lights, top or otherwise, are not 
such,” Eugene remarked, “ as to make it likely 
the berth will be offered you.” 

“ This picture is, I understand, Eugene, a 
stunner. Give us chairs and some brandy and 
soda and trot it out,” said Ayre. 

Morewood was unmoved by their frivolity. 
He tugged at his ragged red beard for a 
moment or two while they were settling them- 
selves. 

“ I’ll show you this first,” he said, taking 
up one of the canvases that leant against the 
wall. 

It was a beautiful sketch of a half-length 
figure, and represented Stafford in the garb of 
a monk, gazing up with eager eyes, full of the 
vision of the Eternal City beyond the skies. 
It was the face of a devotee and a visionary, 
and yet it was full of strength and resolution ; 
and there was in it the look of a man who had 


MR. MOREWOOD'S MASTERPIECE. 


57 


put aside all except the service and the con- . 
templation of the Divine. 

Ayre forgot to sneer, and Eugene mur- 
mured : 

“ Glorious ! What a subject ! And, old 
fellow, what an artist ! ” 

“That is good,” said Morewood quietly. 

“ Its fine, but as a matter of painting the 
other is still better. I caught him looking like 
that one morning. He came out before break- 
fast, very early, into the garden. I was out 
there, but he didn’t see me, and he stood look- 
ing up like that for ever so long, his lips just 
parted and his eyes straining through the veil, 
as you see that. It may be all nonsense, but 
— fine, isn’t it ? ” 

The two men nodded. 

“ Now for the other,” said Ayre. “ By 
Jove ! I feel as if I’d been in church.” 

“The other I got only three or four days 
ago. Again I was a Paul Pry, — we have to 
be. you know, if we’re to do anything worth 
doin£, — a nd I took him while he sat. But I 
dare say you’d better see it first.” 

He took another and smaller picture and 
placed it on the easel, standing for a moment 
between it and the onlookers and studying it 
closely. Then he stepped aside in silence. 


58 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


It was merely a head — nothing more — 
standing out boldly from a dark background. 
The face was again Stafford’s, but the present- 
ment differed strangely. It was still beautiful ; 
it had even a beauty the other had not, 
the beauty of youth and passion. The 
devotee was gone ; in his place was a face 
that, in spite of the ascetic cast of feature, was 
so lighted up with the fire of love and longing 
that it might have stood for a Leander or a 
Romeo. It expressed an eager yearning, that 
made it seem to be craning out of the picture 
in the effort to reach that unknown object on 
which the eyes were fixed with such devouring 
passion. 

The men sat looking at it in amazement. 
Eugene was half angry, half alarmed. Ayre 
was closely studying the picture, his old look 
of cynical amusement struggling with a sur- 
prise which it was against his profession to 
admit. They forgot to praise the picture ; 
but Morewood was well content with their 
tacit homage. 

“ The finest thing I ever did — on my life ; 
one of the finest things any one ever did,” he 
murmured ; “and I can’t show it !” 

“No,” said Eugene. 

Ayre rose and took his stand before the 


MR. MORE WOOD' S MAS7ERPIECE. 59 

picture. Then he got a chair, choosing the 
lowest he could find, and sat down, sitting well 
back. This attitude brought him exactly 
under the gaze of the eyes. 

“ Is it your diabolic fancy,” he said, “or 
did you honestly copy it?” 

“ I never stuck closer to what I saw,” the 
painter replied. “ It’s not my doing ; he 
looked like that.” 

“ Then who was sitting, as it were, where 
I am now ? ” 

“Yes,” said Morewood. “I thought you 
couldn’t miss it.” 

“Who was it?” asked Eugene, in an 
excited way. 

The others looked keenly at him for a 
moment. 

“You know,” said Morewood. “Claudia 
Territon. She was sitting there reading. He 
had a book, too, but had laid it down on 
his knee. She sat reading, and he looking. 
In a moment I had caught the look. Then 
she put down the book ; and as she turned to 
him to speak, in a second it was gone, and he 
was not this picture nor the other, but as we 
know him every day.” 

“ She didn’t see ? ” asked Eugene, 

“ No.” 


I 


6o 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


‘'Thank God!” he cried. Then in a 
moment, recollecting himself, he looked at the 
two men, and saw what he had done. They 
tried to look as if they noticed nothing. 

“You must destroy that thing, Morewood,” 
said he. 

Morewood’s face was a study. 

“ I would as soon,” he said deliberately, 
“ cut off my right hand.” 

“ I’ll give you a thousand pounds for it,” 
said Eugene. 

“ What would you do with it ? ” 

“ Burn it.” 

“ Then you shouldn’t have it for ten 
thousand.” 

“ I thought you’d say that. But he mustn’t 
see it.” 

“ Why, Lane, you’re as bad as a child. It’s 
a man in love, that’s all.” 

“ If he saw it,” said Eugene, “ he’d hang 
himself.” 

“ Oh, gently ! ” said Ayre. “ If you ask me, 
I expect Stafford will pretty soon get beyond 
any surprise at the revelation. He must walk 
his path, like all of us. It can’t matter to you, 
you know,” he added, with a sharp glance. 

“No, it can’t matter to me,” said Eugene 
steadily. 


MR. MORE WOOD'S MASTERPIECE. 6 1 

“ Put it away, Morewood, and come out of 
doors. Perhaps you’d better not leave it 
about, at present at any rate.” 

Morewood took down the picture and 
placed it in a large portfolio, which he locked, 
and accompanied Ayre. Eugene made no 
motion to come with them, and they left him 
sitting there. 

“ The atmosphere,” said Sir Roderick, look- 
ing up into the clear summer sky, “ is getting 
thundery and complicated. I hate complica- 
tions ! They’re a bore ! I think I shall go.” 

“ I shan’t. It will be interesting.” 

“ Perhaps you’re right. I’ll stay a little 
while.” 

“ Ah ! here you are. I’ve been looking 
for somebody to amuse me.” 

The speaker was Claudia, looking very 
fresh and cool in her soft white dress. 

“What have you done with the pope?” 
asked Ayre. 

“ He gave me to understand he had wasted 
enough time on me, and went in to write.” 

“ I should think he was right,” said Sir 
Roderick. 

“ I dare say,” said Claudia carelessly. 

Her conscience was evidently quite at ease ; 
but they did not know whether this meant that 


62 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


her actions had deserved no blame. However, 
they were neither of them men to judge such 
a case as hers harshly. 

“ If I were fifteen years younger,” said 
Ayre, “ I would waste all my time on you.” 

“ Why, you’re only about forty,” said 
Claudia. “That’s not too old.” 

“Good!” said he, smiling. “Life in the 
old dog yet, eh ? But go in and see Lane. 
He’s in the billiard-room, thinking over his 
sins and getting low-spirited.” 

“ And I shall be a change ? ” 

“ I don’t know about that. Perhaps he’s a 
homoeopathist.” 

“ I hate you ! ” said Claudia, with a very 
kind glance, as she pursued her way in the 
direction indicated. 

“ She means no harm,” said Morewood. 

“But she may do the devil of a lot. We 
can’t help it, can we?” 

“ No — not our business if we could,” said 
Morewood. 

Claudia paused for a moment at the door. 
Eugene was still sitting with his head on his 
hand. 

“It’s very odd,” thought she. “What’s 
he looking at the easel for ? There’s nothing 
on it ! ” 


MR. MORE WOOD'S MASTERPIECE . 63 

Then she began to sing. Eugene looked up. 

“ Is it you, Lady Claudia ? ” 

“ Yes. Why are you moping here ? ” 

“ Where’s Stafford ?” 

“ Everybody,” said Claudia impatiently, 
throwing her hat, and herself after it, on a 
lounge, “asks me where Father Stafford is. 
I don’t know, Mr. Lane ; and what’s more, at 
this moment I don’t care. Have you nothing 
better than that to say to me when I come to 
look for you ? ” 

Eugene pulled himself together. Tragedy 
airs would be insufferable. 

“True, most beauteous damsel !” he said. 
“ I am remiss. For the purposes of the mo- 
ment, hang Stafford ! What shall we do ?” 

She got up and came close to him. 

“ Mr. Lane,” she whispered, “ what do you 
think there is in the stable ? ” 

“ I know what there isn’t : that’s a horse 
fit to ride.” 

“ A libel ! a libel ! But there is [in a still 
lower whisper] a sociable .” 

“ A what ? ” 

“ A sociable.” 

“ Do you mean a tricycle ?” 

“Yes — for two.” 

“ Oho ! ” said Eugene, gently chuckling. 


6 4 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Wouldn’t it be fun ? ’ 

“ On the road ? ” 

“ N — no, perhaps not ; round the park.” 

“Hush ! S’death ! if Kate saw us ! Where 
is she ? ” 

“ I saw her last with Mr. Haddington.” 

“ In the scheme of creation everything has 
its use,” replied Eugene tranquilly. “ Had- 
dington supplies a felt want.” 

“ Be quiet. But will you?” 

“Yes; come along. Be swift and silent.” 

“ I must go and put on an old frock.” 

“ All right ; be quick.” 

“What is the use ?” Eugene pondered ; “ I 
can’t have her, and Stafford may as well — if 
he will. Will he, I wonder ? And would she ? 
Oh, Lord ! what a nuisance they are ! By 
Jove! I should like to see Kate’s face if she 
spots us.” 

A few minutes later the strange and unedi- 
fying sight of Lady Claudia Territon and 
Mr. Lane, mounted on a very rickety old 
“sociable,” presented itself to the gaping gaze 
of several laborers in the park. Claudia was 
in her most boisterous spirits ; Eugene, by one 
of the quick transitions of his nature, was 
hardly less elate. U p-h ill they toiled and down- 
hill they raced, getting, as the manner of 


MR. MORE WOOD'S MASTERPIECE . 65 

“ cyclists ” is, very warm and rather oily. But 
retribution lagged not. Down a steep hill 
they came, round a sharp turn they went, and, 
alas, over into a ditch they fell. This was bad 
enough, but in the calm seclusion of a garden 
seat, perched on a knoll just above them, the 
sinners, as they rose, dirty but unhurt, beheld 
Miss Bernard ! For a moment all was con- 
sternation. What would she say ? 

It was a curious thing, but Kate seemed 
as embarrassed as themselves, and she said 
nothing except : 

“ Oh, I hope you’re not hurt ! ” and said 
this in a hasty way and with ostentatious 
amiability. 

Eugene was surprised. But as his eyes 
wandered, they fell on Haddington, and that 
rising politician held awkwardly in his hand, 
and was trying to convey behind his back, 
what looked very like a lady’s glove. Now 
Miss Bernard had only one glove on. 

“ The battery is spiked,” he whispered 
triumphantly. “ Come along, Lady Claudia.” 

Claudia hadn’t seen what Eugene had, but 
she obeyed, and off they went again, airily 
waving their hands. 

“What’s the matter with her?” she asked. 

Eugene was struggling with laughter. 


66 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Didn’t you see? Haddington had her 
glove ! Splendid ! ” 

Claudia, regardless of safety, turned for an 
instant a flushed, smiling face to him. He 
was about to speak, but she turned away 
again, exclaiming : 

“Quick! I’ve promised to meet Father 
Stafford at twelve, and I musn’t keep him 
waiting. I wouldn’t miss it for the world ! ” 

Eugene was checked ; Claudia saw it. 
What she thought is not revealed, but they 
returned home in somewhat gloomy silence. 
And it is a comfort to the narrator, and it is 
to be hoped to the reader, to think that Mr. 
Eugene Lane got something besides pleasure 
out of his discreditable performance and his 
lamentable want of proper feeling. 


CHAPTER V. 

HOW THREE GENTLEMEN ACTED FOR THE BEST. 

T he schemers schemed and the waiters upon 
events waited with considerable patience, but 
although the days wore on, the situation 
showed little signs of speedy development. 
Matters were in fact in a rather puzzling posi- 
tion. The friendship and intimacy between 
Claudia and Stafford continued to increase. 
Eugene, whether in penitence or in pique, had 
turned with renewed zeal to his proper duties, 
and was no longer content to allow Kate to 
be monopolized by Haddington. The latter’s 
attentions had indeed been in danger of 
becoming too marked, and it is, perhaps, 
not uncharitable to attribute Kate’s apparent 
avoidance of them as much to considerations 
of expediency as of principle. At the same 
time, there was no coolness between Eugene 
and Haddington, and when his guest presented 
a valid excuse and proposed departure, Eugene 
met the suggestion with an obviously sincere 
opposition. Sir Roderick really could not 
make out what was going on. Now Sir 
Roderick disliked being puzzled; it conveyed 

67 


68 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


a reflection on his acuteness, and he therefore 
was a sharer in the perturbation of mind that 
evidently afflicted some of his companions, in 
spite of their decorous behavior. But content- 
ment was not wanting in some hearts. More- 
wood was happy in the pursuit of his art and 
in arguments with Stafford ; and Bob Territon 
had found refuge in an energetic attempt to 
organize and train a Manor team to do battle 
with the village cricket club, headed as it had 
been for thirty years past by the Rector. 
Moreover, Stafford himself still seemed tran- 
quil. It would have been difficult for most 
men to fail to understand their true position in 
such a case more fully than he, in spite of his 
usual penetration of vision, had succeeded in 
doing. But he was now in a strange country, 
and the landmarks of feeling whereby the 
experienced traveler on such paths can learn 
and note, even if he cannot check, his descent, 
were to Stafford unmeaning and empty of 
warning. Of course, he knew he liked 
Claudia’s society; he found her talk at once a 
change, a rest, and a stimulus ; he had even 
become aware that of all the people at the 
Manor, except his old friend and host, she had 
for him the most interest and attraction ; per- 
haps he had even suffered at times that sense 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST. 69 

of vacancy of all the chairs when her chair 
was vacant that should have told him of his 
state if anything- would. But he did not see ; 
he was blind in this matter, even as, say, Ayre 
or Morewood would have proved blind if called 
upon to study and describe the mental process 
of a religious conversion. He was yet far 
from realizing that an influence had entered 
his life in force strong enough to contend with 
that which had so long ruled him with un- 
divided sway. It was the part of a friend to 
hope and try that he might go with his own 
heart yet a secret to him. So hoped Eugene. 
But Eugene, unnerved by self-suspicion, would 
not lift a finger to hasten his friend’s departure, 
lest he should seem to himself, or be without 
perceiving it even himself, alert to save his 
friend, only because his friend’s salvation 
would be to his own comfort. 

Sir Roderick Ayre, however, was not 
restrained by Eugene’s scruples nor inspired 
by Eugene’s devotion to Stafford. Stafford 
interested him, but he was not his friend, and 
Ayre did not understand, or, if truth be told, 
appreciate the almost reverential attitude which 
Eugene, usually so very devoid of reverence, 
adopted toward him. Ayre thought Staf- 
tord’s vow nonsense, and that if he was in love 


70 FA THF.R STAFFORD . 

with Claudia Territon there was no harm 
done. 

“Many people have been” he said, “and 
many will be, before the little witch grows old 
and — no, by Jove ! she’ll never grow ugly !” 

Trivial as the matter seemed, looked at in 
this light, it had yet enough of human interest 
about it to decide him to leave the grouse 
alone, and wait patiently for the partridges at 
Millstead. After all, he had shot grouse and 
most other things for thirty years ; and, as he 
said, “ The parson was a change, and the house 
deuced comfortable, and old Eugene a good 
fellow.” 

Now it came to pass one day that the 
devil, having a spare hour on his hands, and 
remembering that he had often met with a 
hospitable reception from Sir Roderick, to 
say nothing of having a bowing acquaintance 
with Morewood, looked in at the Manor, and 
finding his old quarters at Sir Roderick’s swept 
and garnished, incontinently took up his abode 
there, and proceeded to look round for some 
suitable occupation. When this momentous 
but invisible event accomplished itself, Sir 
Roderick was outwardly engaged in the inno- 
cent and aimless pursuit of knocking the 
billiard balls about and listening absently to a 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST. 71 

discourse from Morewood on the essential 
truths which he (Morewood) had grasped -and 
presented alone of modern artists. The theme 
was not exhilarating, and Sir Roderick’s tenant 
soon grew very tired of it ; the presentment of 
truth, indeed, essential or otherwise, not being 
a matter that concerned him. But in the 
course of an inspection of Sir Roderick’s con- 
sciousness, he had come across something that 
appeared worth following up, and toward it 
he proceeded to direct his entertainer’s con- 
versation. 

“ I say, Morewood,” said Ayre, breaking in 
on the discourse, “do you think it’s fair to 
keep that fellow Stafford in the dark ?” 

“ Is he in the dark ? ” 

“ It’s a queer thing, but he is. I never 
knew a man who was in love before without 
knowing it, — they say women are that way, — 
but then I never met a ‘ Father ’ before.” 

“ What do you propose, since you insist on 
gossiping ? ” 

“ It isn’t gossip ; it’s Christian feeling. 
Some one ought to tell the poor beggar.” 

“ Perhaps you’d like to.” 

“ I should, but it would seem like a liberty, 
and I never take liberties. You do constantly, 
so you might as well take this one.” 


72 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ I like that ! Why, the man’s a stranger ! 
If he ought to be told at all, Lane’s the man to 
do it.” 

“ Yes, but you see, Lane ’ 

“ That’s quite true ; I forgot. But isn't he 
better left alone to get over it ? ” 

Sir Roderick, unprejudiced, might have 
conceded the point. But the prompter inter- 
vened. 

“What I’m thinking about is this: is it 
fair to her ? I don’t say she’s in love with 
him, but she admires him immensely. They’re 
always together, and — well, it’s plain what’s 
likely enough to happen. If it does, what 
will be said ? Who’ll believe he did it un- 
consciously ? And if he breaks her heart, how 
is it better because he did it unconsciously ? ” 

“ You are unusually benevolent,” said More- 
wood dryly. 

“ Hang it ! a man has some feelings.” 

“ You’re a humbug, Ayre ! ” 

“ Never mind what I am. You won’t tell 
him ? ” 

“ No.” 

“It would be a very interesting problem.” 

“ It would.” 

“ That vow of his is all nonsense, ain’t 


it?” 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST. 73 

“ Utter nonsense ! ” 

“ Why shouldn’t he have his chance of being 
happy in a reasonable way ? I shouldn’t 
wonder if she took him.” 

“ No more should I.” 

“ Upon my soul, I believe it’s a duty ! I 
say, Morewood, do you think he’d see it for 
himself from the picture ? ” 

“ Of course he would. No one could help 
it.” 

“Will you let him see it?” 

Morewood took a turn or two up and down, 
tugging his beard. The issue was doubtful. 
A certain auditor of the conversation, perceiv- 
ing this, hastily transferred himself from one 
interlocutor to the other. 

“ I’ll tell you what I’ll do : I’ll let him see 
it if Lane agrees. I’ll leave it to Lane.” 

“ Rather rough on Lane, isn’t it?” 

“ A little strong emotion of any kind won’t 
do Lane any harm.” 

“ Perhaps not. We will train our young 
friend’s mind to cope with moral problems. 
He’ll never get on in the world nowadays 
unless he can do that. It’s now part of a 
gentleman’s — still more of a lady’s — edu- 
cation.” 

Eugene was clearly wanted. By some 


74 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


agency, into which it is needless to inquire, 
though we may have suspicions, at that 
moment Eugene strolled into the billiard- 
room. 

“ We have a little question to submit to 
you, my dear fellow/’ said Ayre blandly. 

Eugene looked at him suspiciously. He 
had been a good deal worried the last few days, 
and had a dim idea that he deserved it, which 
deprived him of the sense of unmerited suffer- 
ing — a most valuable consolation in time of 
trouble. 

“It’s about Stafford. You remember the 
head of him Morewood did, and the conclusion 
we drew from it — or, rather, it forced upon us? ” 

Eugene nodded, instinctively assuming his 
most nonchalant air. 

“We think he’s a bad case. What think 
you ? 

“ I agree — at least, I suppose I do. I 
haven’t thought much about it.” 

Ayre thought the indifference overdone, 
but he took no notice of it. 

“We are inclined to think he ought to 
be shown that picture. I am clear about it ; 
Morewood doubts. And we are going to refer 
it to you.” 

“ You’d better leave me out,” 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST. 75 

“ Not at all. You’re a friend of his, known 
him all your life, and you’ll know best what 
will be for his good.” 

“ If you insist on asking me, I think you 
had better let it alone.” 

“Wait a minute. Why do you say 
that?” 

“ Because it will be a shock to him.” 

“ No doubt, at first. He’s got some silly 
notion in his head about not marrying, and 
about it’s being sinful to fall in love, and all 
that.” 

“It won’t make him happier to be re- 
fused.” 

Ayre leant forward in his chair, and said : 

“ How do you know she’ll refuse him ?” 

“ I don’t know. How should I know ? ” 

“ Do you think it likely ? ” 

“Is that a fair question?” asked More- 
wood. 

“ Perfectly,” said Eugene, with an expres- 
sionless face. “ But it’s one I have no means 
of answering.” 

“He’s plucky,” thought Ayre. “Would 
you give the same answer you gave just now 
if you thought she’d take him ? ” 

It was certainly hard on Eugene. Was he 
bound, against even a tolerably strong feeling 


7 6 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


of his own, to give Stafford every chance ? It 
is not fair to a man to make him a judge 
where he is in truth a party. Ayre had no 
mercy for him. 

“ For the sake of a trumpery pledge is he 
to throw away his own happiness — and mark 
you, Lane, perhaps hers ?” 

Eugene did not wince. 

“ If there’s a chance of success, he ought to 
be given the opportunity of exercising his own 
judgment,” he said quietly. “ It would dis- 
tress him immensely, but we should have no 
right to keep it from him. And I suppose 
there’s always a chance of success.” 

“Go and get the picture, Morewood,” said 
Sir Roderick. Then, when the painter was 
looking in the portfolio, he said abruptly to 
Eugene : 

“ You could say nothing else.” 

“ No. That’s why you asked me, I sup- 
pose. I hope I’m an interesting subject. You 
dig pretty deep.” 

“Serves you right!” said Ayre com- 
posedly. “ Why were you ever such an ass ? ” 

“God knows !” groaned Eugene. 

Morewood returned. 

“ He’s due here in ten minutes to sit to me. 
Are you going to stay ? ” 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST. 77 

“ No. You be doing something else, and 
let that thing stand on the easel. ” 

“Pleasant for me, isn’t it?” asked More- 
wood. 

“ Are you ashamed of yourself for snatch- 
ing it?” 

“ Not a bit.” 

“ All right, then ; what’s the matter ? Come 
along, Eugene. After all, you know you’ll 
like showing it. For an outsider, like yourself, 
it’s really a deuced clever little bit. Perhaps 
they will make you an Associate if Stafford 
will let you show it.” 

Morewood ignored the taunt, and sat 
down by the window on pretense of touching 
up a sketch. He had not been there long 
when he heard Stafford come in, and became 
conscious that he had caught sight of the 
picture. He did not look up, and heard no 
sound. A long pause followed. Then he felt 
a strong grip on his shoulder, and Stafford 
whispered : 

“ It is my face ? ” 

“ You see it is.” 

“You did it ? ” 

“ Yes. I ought to beg your pardon,” and 
he looked up. Stafford was pale as death, and 
trembling. 


73 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“When?” 

“A few days ago.” 

“ On your oath — no, you don’t believe that 
— on your honor, is it truth ? ” 

“ Yes, it is.” 

“ You saw it — just as it is there ? ” 

“Yes, it is exact. I had no right to take 
it or to show it you.” 

“ What does that matter, man ? Do you 
think I care about that ? But — yes, it is true. 
God help me ! ” 

“We have seen it, you know. It was time 
you saw it.” 

“ Time, indeed ! ” 

“ Where’s the harm ? ” asked Morewood, in 
a rough effort at comfort. 

“ The harm ? But you don’t understand. 
It is the face of a beast ! ” 

“ My dear fellow, that’s stuff ! It’s only 
the face of a lover.” 

Stafford looked at him. in a dazed way. 

“ I wish you’d let me go back to my room, 
Morewood, and give me that picture. No — I 
won’t hurt it.” 

“ Take it, then, and pull yourself together. 
What’s the harm, again I say ? And if she 
loves you ” 

“ What ? ” he cried eagerly. Then, check- 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST 79 

in g himself, “ Hold your peace, in Heaven’s 
name, and let me go !” 

He went his way, and Morewood leaped 
from the window to find the other two. He 
found them, but not alone. Ayre was discours- 
ing to Claudia and appeared entirely oblivious 
of the occurrence which he had precipitated. 
Eugene was walking up and down with Kate 
Bernard. It is necessary to listen to what the 
latter couple were saying. 

“ This is sad news, Kate,” Eugene said. 
“ Why are you going to leave us ? ” 

“ My aunt wants me to go with her to 
Buxton in September, and we’re going to have 
a few days on the river before that.” 

“ Then we shall not meet again for some 
time ? ” 

“ No. Of course I shall write to you.” 

“ Thank you — I hope you will. You’ve 
had a pleasant time, I hope ? Who are to be 
your river party ? ” 

“ Oh, just ourselves and one or two girls 
and men. Lord Rickmansworth is to be there 
a day or two, if he can. And — oh, yes, Mr. 
Haddington, I think.” 

“ Isn’t Haddington staying here ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I understood not. So 
your party will break up, Kate went 


8o 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


on. “ Of course, Claudia can’t stay when I 

" Why not ? ” 

“ Really, Eugene, it would be hardly the 
thing.” 

“ I believe my mother is not thinking of 
go in g.” 

“ Do you mean you will ask Claudia ? ” 

“ I certainly cannot ask her to curtail her 
visit.” 

“ Anyhow, Father Stafford goes soon, and 
she won’t stay then.” 

This last shaft accomplished Miss Bernard’s 
presumable object. Eugene lost his temper. 

“ Forgive me for saying so, Kate,” he said, 
“ but really at times your mind seems to me 
positively vulgar.” 

“ I am not going to quarrel. I am quite 
aware of what you want.” 

“ What’s that ? ” 

“ An opportunity for quarreling.” 

If that’s all, I might have found several. 
But come, Kate, it’s no use, and not very 
dignified, to squabble. We haven’t got on 
so well as we might. But I dare say it’s my 
fault.” 

“ Do you want to throw me over ? ” asked 
Kate scornfully. 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST. 81 

“ For Heaven’s sake, don’t talk like a 
breach-of-promise plaintiff ! I am and always 
have been perfectly ready to fulfill my engage- 
ment. But you don’t make it easy for me. 
Unless you ‘throw me over,’ as you are 
pleased to phrase it, things will remain as 
they are.” 

“ I have been taught to consider an engage- 
ment as binding as a marriage.” 

“ No warrant for such a view in Holy 
Scripture.” 

“ And whatever my feelings may be — and 
you can hardly wonder if after your conduct 
they are not what they were — I shall consider 
myself bound.” 

“ I have never proposed anything else.” 

“Your conduct with Claudia ” 

“ I must ask you to leave Lady Claudia 
alone. If you come to that — but there, I was 
just going to scratch back like a school-girl. 
Let us remember our manners, if nothing else.” 

“ And our principles,” added Kate 
haughtily. 

“ By all means, and forget our deviations 
from them. And now this conversation may 
as well end, may it not ? ” 

Kate’s only answer was to walk straight 
away to the house. 


&2 


FATHER STAFFORD, . 


Eugene joined Claudia ; Ayre, in his ab- 
sence, had been reinforced by the accession 
of Bob Territon. 

“ Kate’s going to-morrow,” Eugene an- 
nounced. 

“So I heard,” said Claudia. “We must 
go, too — we have been here a terrible time.” 

“Why?” 

“ It’s all nonsense ! ” interposed Bob de- 
cisively ; “ we can’t go for a week. The 
match is fixed for next Wednesday.” 

“ But,” said Claudia, “ I’m not going to 
play.” 

“ I am,” said Bob. “ And where do you 
propose to go to ? ” 

“No, Lady Claudia,” said Eugene, “you 
must see us through the great day. I really 
wish you would. The whole county’s coming, 
and it will be too much for my mother alone. 
After the cricket-match, if you still insist, the 
deluge ! ” 

“ I’ll ask Mrs. Lane. She’ll tell me what 
to do.” 

“Good child !” said Sir Roderick. “I am 
going to stay right away till the birds. And 
as Lane says I ain’t to have any birds unless I 
field at long-leg, I am going to field at long- 


THREE GENTLEMEN ACT FOR THE BEST . 83 

“ Splendid ! ” cried Claudia, clapping her 
hands ; “ Sir Roderick Ayre at a rustic cricket- 
match ! Mr. Morewood shall sketch you.” 

“ I’ve had enough of sketching just now/’ 
said Morewood. Ayre and Eugene looked up. 
Morewood nodded slightly. 

“ Where’s Stafford?” asked Ayre. 

“In his room — at work, I suppose. He put 
off my sitting.” 

“ Nevermind Father Stafford, * said Claudia 
decisively. “ Who is going to play tennis ? I 
shall play with Sir Roderick.” 

“ I’d much rather sit still in the shade,” 
pleaded Sir Roderick. 

“ You’re a very rude old gentleman ! But 
you must play, all the same — against Bob and 
Mr. Morewood.” 

“Where do I come in?” asked Eugene. 
“Mayn’t I do anything, Lady Claudia?” 

The others were looking after the net and 
the racquets, and Claudia was left with him for 
a moment. 

“Yes,” she said; “you may go and sit on 
Kate’s trunks till they lock.” 

“Wait a little while ; I will be revenged on 
you. I want, though, to ask you a question.” 

“ Oh ! Is it a question that no one else — 
say Kate, for instance — could help you with ?” 


2 4 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ It’s not about myself.” 

“ Is it about me ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What’s the matter, Mr. Lane ? Is it any- 
thing serious ? ” 

“ Very.” 

“Nonsense!” said Claudia. “You really 
musn’t do it, Mr. Lane, or I can’t stay for the 
cricket-match.” 

“ We shall be desolate. Stafford s going in 
a few days.” 

But Claudia’s face was entirely guileless as 
she replied : 

“ Is he? I’m so sorry ! But he’s looking 
much stronger, isn’t he ? ” 

With which she departed to join Sir Rod- 
erick, who had been spending the interval 
in extracting from Morewood an account of 
Stafford’s behavior. 

“ Hard hit, was he?” he concluded. 

“ He looked it.” 

“ Wonder what he’ll do ! I’ll give you five 
to four he asks her.” 

“Done !” said Morewood; “in fives.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

FATHER STAFFORD KEEPS VIGIL. 

Dinner that evening at the Manor was not 
a very brilliant affair. Stafford did not appear, 
pleading that it was a Friday, and a strict fast 
for him. Kate was distinctly out of temper, 
and treated the company in general, and 
Eugene in particular, with frigidity. Every- 
body felt that the situation was somewhat 
strained, and in consequence the pleasant flow 
of personal talk that marks parties of friends 
was dried up at its source. The discussion of 
general topics was found to be a relief. 

“ The utter uselessness of such a class as 
Ayre represents,” said Morewood emphatically, 
taking up a conversation that had started no 
one quite knew how, “must strike every sen- 
sible man.” 

“ At least they buy pictures,” said Eugene. 

“ On the contrary, they now sell old 
masters, and empty the pockets of would-be 
buyers.” 

“ They are very ornamental,” remarked 
Claudia. 

“In some cases, undoubtedly,” said More- 
wood. 


85 


86 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ If you mean a titled class,” said Ayre, 
“ I quite agree. I object to titles. They only 
confuse ranks. A sweep is made a lord, and 
outsiders think he’s a gentleman.” 

“ Come, you’re a baronet yourself, you 
know,” said Eugene. 

“ It’s true,” admitted Ayre, with a sigh ; 
“but it happened a long while ago, and we’ve 
nearly lived it down.” 

“ Take care they don’t make you a 
peer ! ” 

“ I have passed a busy life in avoiding it. 
After all, there’s a chance. I’m not a brewer or 
a lawyer, or anything of that kind. But still, 
the fear of it has paralyzed my energies and 
compelled me to squander my fortune. They 
don’t make poor men peers.” 

“ That ought to have been allowed to weigh 
in the balance in favor of Dives,” suggested 
Eugene. 

“ Not a bit,” said Ayre. “ Depend upon it, 
they kept it for him down below.” 

“ I hate cynicism ! ” said Claudia, suddenly 
and aggressively. 

Ayre put up his eye-glass. 

“ A pres ? ” 

“ It’s all affectation.” 

“ Really, Lady Claudia, you might be quite 


FATHER STAFFORD KEEP S VIGIL. 87 

old, from the way you talk. That is one of the 
illusions of age, which, by the way, have not 
received enough attention.” 

“ That’s very true,” said Eugene. “ Old 
people think the world better than it is because 
their faculties don’t enable them to make such 
demands upon it.” 

“ My dear Eugene,” said Mrs. Lane perti- 
nently, “ what can you know about it ? As we 
grow old we grow charitable.” 

“ And why is that ? ” asked Morewood ; 
“ not because you think better of other people, 
but because you know more of yourself.” 

“ That is so,” said Ayre. “ Standing mid- 
way between youth and age, I am an arbiter. 
You judge others by yourself. In youth you 
have an unduly good opinion of yourself, that 
unduly depresses your opinion of others. In 
age it’s the opposite way. But who knows 
which is more wrong ? ” 

“ At least let us hope age is right, Sir 
Roderick,” said Mrs. Lane. 

“ By all means,” said he. 

“ All this doesn’t touch my point,” said 
Claudia. “ You are accounting for it as if it 
existed. My point was that it didn’t exist. I 
said it was all affectation.” 

“ And not the only sort of affectation of 


88 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


the same kind!” said Kate Bernard, with re- 
markable emphasis. 

Sir Roderick enjoyed a troubled sea. Turn- 
ing to Kate, with a rapid side glance at Claudia 
on the way, he said : 

“ That’s interesting. How do you mean, 
Miss Bernard ? ” 

“ All attempts to put one’s self forward, to be 
peculiar, and so on, are the same kind of affec- 
tation, and are odious — especially in women.” 

There was nothing very much in the words, 
and Kate was careful to look straight in front 
of her as she uttered them. Still they told. 

“You mean,” said Ayre, “there may be an 
affectation of freshness and enthusiasm — gush, 
in fact — as bad, or worse, than cynicism, and 
really springing from the same root ? ” 

Kate had not arrived at any such definite 
meaning, but she nodded her head. 

“ An assumed sprightliness,” continued Ayre 
cheerfully, “ perhaps coquettishness ?” 

“ Exactly,” Kate assented, “ and a way of 
pushing into conversations which my mother 
used to say girls had better let alone.” 

This was tolerably direct, but it did not 
satisfy Ayre’s malicious humor, and he was 
on the point of a new question when Hadding- 
ton, who had taken no part in the previous 


FATHER STAFFORD KEEPS VIGIL. 89 

conversation, but had his reasons for interfer- 
ing now, put in suavely : 

“ If Miss Bernard and you, Ayre, will for- 
give me, are we not wandering from the 
point ? ” 

“Was there any point to wander from?” 
suggested Eugene. 

So they drifted through the evening, skirt- 
ing the coast of quarrels and talking of every- 
thing except that of which they were thinking. 
Verily, love affairs do not always conduce to 
social enjoyment — more especially other peo- 
ple’s love affairs. Still, Sir Roderick Ayre was 
entertained. 

Meanwhile, Stafford sat in his room alone, 
save for the company of his own picture. He 
was like a man who has been groping his way 
through difficult paths in the dark — uneasy, it 
may be, and nervous, but with no serious alarm. 
On a sudden, a storm-flash may reveal to him 
that he is on the very edge of a precipice or 
already ankle-deep in some bottomless morass. 
The sight of his own face, interpreted with all 
Morewood’s penetrating insight and mastery of 
hand, had been a revelation to him. No more 
mercilessly candid messenger could have been 
found. Arguments he would have resisted or 
confuted ; appeals to his own consciousness 


9 o 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


would have failed for want of experience; he 
could not affect to disbelieve the verdict of his 
own countenance. He had in all his life been 
a man who dealt plainly with himself ; it was 
only in this last matter that the power, more 
than the will, to understand his own heart had 
failed him. His intellect now reasserted itself. 
He did not attempt to blink facts ; he did not 
deny the truth of the revelation or seek to ex- 
tenuate its force. He did not tell himself that 
the matter was a trifle, or that its effect would 
be transient. He recognized that he had fallen 
from the state of a priest vowed to Heaven, to 
that of a man whose whole heart and mind 
had gone out in love for a woman and were 
filled with her image. His judgment of him- 
self was utterly reversed, his pre-suppositions 
confounded, his scheme of life wrecked ; all 
this he knew for truth, unless indeed it might 
be that victory could still be his — victory after 
a struggle even to death ; a struggle that 
had found no type or forecast in the mimic 
contests that had marked, almost without dis- 
turbing, his earlier progress on the road of his 
choice. 

In the long hours that he sat gazing at 
the picture his mind was the scene of chang- 
ing moods. At first the sense of horror and 


FATHER STAFFORD KEEPS VIGIL. 91 

shame was paramount. He was aghast at him- 
self and too full of self-abhorrence to do more 
than fight blindly away from what he could 
not but see. He would fain have lost his senses 
if only to buy the boon of ignorance. Then 
this mood passed. The long habit of his heart 
asserted itself, and he fell on his knees, no 
longer in horror, but in abasement and peni- 
tence. Now all his thought was for the sin he 
had done to Heaven and to his vow ; but had he 
not learnt and taught, and re-learnt in teaching, 
that there was no sin without pardon, if pardon 
were sought ? And for a moment, not peace, 
but the far-off possible hope and prospect of 
peace regained comforted his spirit. It might 
be yet that he would come through the dark 
valley, and gaze with his old eyes on the light 
of his life set in the sky. 

But was his sin only against Heaven and 
his vow and himself? Is sin so confined ? If 
Morewood had seen, had not others ? Had not 
she seen ? Would not the discovery he had 
made come to her also? Nay, had it not 
come? He had been blind; but had she? 
Was it not far more likely that she had not 
deceived herself as to the tendency of their 
friendship, nor dreamt that he meant anything 
except what his acts, words, and looks had so 


92 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


plainly — yes, to his own eyes now, so plainly 
declared? He looked back on her gracious* 
ness, her delight in his society, her unconcealed 
admiration for him. What meaning had these 
but one? What did she know of his vow? 
Why should she dream of anything save the 
happy ending of the story that flits before 
the half-averted eyes of a girl when she 
is with her lover? Even if she had heard 
of his vow, would they not all tell her it 
was a conceit of youth, a spiritual affec- 
tation, a thing that a wise counselor would 
tell him and her quietly to set aside ? Did it 
not all point to this ? He was not only a 
perjurer toward Heaven, but his sin had 
brought woe and pain to her he loved. 

So he groaned in renewed self-condem- 
nation. But what did that mean ? And then 
an irresistible tide of triumph swept over him, 
obliterating shame and horror and remorse. 
She loved him. He had won. Be it good or 
evil, she was his ! Who forbade his joy ? 
Though all the world, aye, and all Heaven, 
were against him, nothing should stop him. 
Should he sin for naught ? Should he not 
have the price of his soul ? Should he not 
enjoy what he had bought so dearly ? Enough 
of talking, and enough of reasoning ! Passion 


FATHER STAFFORD KEEPS VIGIL. 93 

filled him, and he knew no good nor evil save 
its satiety or hunger. 

The mad mood passed, and there came a 
worthier mind. He sat and looked along the 
avenue of his life. He saw himself walking 
hand in hand with her. Now she was not the 
instrument of his pleasure, but the helper in his 
good deeds. By her sweet influence he was 
stronger to do well ; his broader sympathies 
and fuller life made a servant more valuable 
to his Master ; he would serve Heaven as well 
and man better, and, knowing the common joys 
of man, he would better minister to common 
pains. Who was he that he should claim to 
lead a life apart, or arrogate to himself an im- 
munity and an independence other men had 
not ? Man and woman created He them, and 
did it not make for good ? And he sank back 
in his chair, with the picture of a life before 
him, blessed and giving blessings, and ending 
at last in an old age, when she would still 
be with him, when he should be the head and 
inspiration of a house wherein God’s service 
was done, when he should see his son’s sons 
following in his steps, and so, having borne his 
part, fall asleep, to wake again to an union 
wherein were no stain of earth and no shadow 
of parting. 


94 


FA THER S7AFF0RD. 


From these musings he awoke with a 
shudder, as there came back to him many a 
memory of lofty pitying words, with which 
he had gently drawn aside the cloak of seem- 
liness wherein some sinner had sought to wrap 
his sin. His dream of the perfect joint-life, 
what was it but a sham tribute to decency, 
a threadbare garment for the hideousness of 
naked passion ? Had he taught himself to con- 
template such a life, and shaped himself for it, 
it might be a worthy life — not the highest, but 
good for men who were not made for saints. 
But as it was, it seemed to him but a glazing 
over of his crime. Sternly there stood between 
him and it his profession and his pledge. If he 
would forsake the one and violate the other, 
by Heaven, he would do it boldly, and not seek 
to slink out by such self-cozening. At least 
he would not deceive himself again. If he 
sinned, he would sin openly to his own heart. 
There should be no compact : nothing but 
defeat or victory ! And yet, was he right? It 
would be pitiful if for pride’s sake, if for 
fear of the sneers of men, he were to kill her 
joy and defile his own soul with her heart’s 
blood. People would laugh at the converted 
celibate — was it that he feared ? Had he fallen 
so low as that ? or was the shrinking he felt 


FA THER STAFFORD KEEPS VIGIL. 


95 


not rather the dread that his fall would be a 
stone of stumbling to others ? for in his infatu- 
ation he had assumed to be an example. Was 
there no distinguishing good and evil ? Could 
every motive and every act change form and 
color as you looked at it, and be now the 
counsel of Heaven, and now the prompting of 
Satan? How, then, could a man choose his 
path ? In his bewilderment the darkness 
closed round him, and he groaned aloud. 

It was late now, nearly midnight, and the 
house was quiet. Stafford walked to the open 
window and leant out, bending his tired head 
upon his hand. As he looked out he saw 
through the darkness Eugene and Ayre still 
sitting on the terrace. Ayre was talking. 

“Yes,” he was saying, “we are taught to 
think ourselves of a mighty deal of importance. 
How we fare and what we do is set before 
us as a thing about which angels rejoice or 
mourn. The state of our little minds, or souls, 
or whatever it is, is a matter of deep care to the 
Creator — the Life of the universe. How can 
it be ? How are we more than minutest points 
in that picture in his mind, which is the world ? 
I speak in human metaphor, as one must speak. 
In truth, we are at once a fraction, a tiny frac- 
tion — oh ! what a tiny fraction — of the picture, 


9 6 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


and the like little jot of what it exists for. 
And does what comes to us matter very much 
— whether we walk a little more or a little less 
cleanly — aim a little higher or lower, if there 
is a higher and lower ? What matter ? Ah, 
Eugene, our parents and our pastors teach us 
vanity ! To me it seems pitiful. Let us take 
our little sunshine, doing as little harm and 
giving as little pain as we may, living as long 
as we can, and doing our little bit of useful 
work for the ground when we are dead, if we 
did none for the world when we were living. 
If you cremate, you will deprive many people 
of their only utility.” 

Eugene gently laughed. 

“ Of course you put it as unattractively as 
you can.” 

“ Yes ; but I can’t put it unattractively 
enough to be true. I used to fret and strive, 
and think archangels hung on my actions. 
There are none ; and if there were, what would 
they care for me ? I am a part of it, I 
suppose — a part of the Red King’s dream, as 
Alice says. But what a little part ! I do well 
if I suffer little and give little suffering, and 
so quietly go to help the cabbages.” 

“ I don’t think I believe it,” said Eu- 
gene. 


FATHER STAFFORD KEERS VIGIL. 97 

“ I suppose not. It’s hard to believe and 
impossible to disbelieve.” 

Stafford listened intently. Memories came 
back to him of books he had read and put 
behind him ; books wherein Ayre had found 
his creed, if the thing could be called a creed. 
Was that true ? Was he rending his soul for 
nothing ? A day earlier such a thought would 
have been to him at once a torture and a sin. 
Now he found a strange comfort in it. Why 
strive and cry, when none watched the effort or 
heard the agony ? Why torture himself ? Why 
torture others ? If the world were good, why 
was he not to have his part ? If it were bad, 
might he not find a quiet nook under the wall, 
out of the storm ? Why must he try to breast 
it ? If Ayre was right, what a tragical farce 
his struggle was, what a perverse delusion, 
what an aimless flinging away of the little joy 
his little life could offer ! If this were so, then 
was he indeed alone in the world — except for 
Claudia. Was his choice in truth between this 
world and the next ? He might throw one 
away and never find the other. 

Then he cursed the voice, and himself for 
listening to it, and fell again to vehement 
prayers and self-reproaches, trying to drown 
the clamor of his heart with his insistent 


9 8 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


petitions. If he could only pray as he had 
been wont to pray, he was saved. There lay 
a respite from thought and a refuge from pas- 
sion. Why could he not abandon his whole 
soul to communion with God, as once he could, 
shutting out all save the sense of sin and the 
conviction of forgiveness? He prayed for 
power to pray. But, like the guilty king, he 
could not say Amen. He could not bind his 
wandering thoughts, nor dispel the froward im- 
aginings of his distempered mind. He asked 
one thing, and in his heart desired another ; he 
prayed, and did not desire an answer to his 
prayer ; for when he tried to bow his heart in 
supplication, ever in the midst, between him 
and the throne before which he bent, came the 
form and the face and the voice he loved, and 
the temptation and the longing and the doubt. 
And he was tost and driven about through the 
livelong night till, in utter weariness, he fell on 
the floor and slept. 


CHAPTER VII. 

AN EARLY TRAIN AND A MORNING’S AMUSEMENT. 

It was still early when he awoke, weary, stiff, 
amd unrefreshed, but with a conviction in his 
mind that had grown plain and strong in the 
mysterious way notions sometimes seem to 
gather force in hours of unconsciousness, and 
surprise us with their mature vigor when we 
awake. “ I must go ! ” he kept muttering to 
himself ; “ I must go — go and think. I dare 
do nothing now.” He hastily packed a hand- 
bag, wrote a note for Eugene, asking that the 
rest of his luggage might be forwarded to an 
address he would send, went quietly downstairs, 
and, finding the door just opened, passed out 
unseen. He had three miles to walk to the 
station, but his restless feet brought him there 
quickly, and he had more than a hour to wait 
for the first train, at half-past eight. He sat 
down on the platform and waited. His capac- 
ity for thought and emotion seemed for the 
time exhausted. His thoughts wandered from 
one trivial matter to another, always eluding 
his effort to fix them. He found himself 
acutely studying the gang of laborers who were 

99 


100 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


going by train to their day's work, and wonder- 
ing how many pipes each of their carefully 
guarded matches would light, and what each 
carried in his battered tin drinking-bottle, re- 
membering with a dreary sort of amusement 
that he had heard this same incurable littleness 
of thought settled on men condemned to death. 
Still, it passed the time, and he was surprised 
out of a sort of reverie by the clanging of the 
porter’s inharmonious bell. 

At the same moment a phaeton was rapidly 
driven up to the door of the station, and all the 
porters rushed to meet it. 

“ Label it all for London,” he heard 
Eugene’s voice say. “ Four boxes, a portman- 
teau, and a hat-box. No, I’m not going — this 
lady and gentleman.” 

Kate, Haddington, and Eugene came 
through the ticket-office on to the platform. 
Stafford involuntarily shrank back. 

“Just in time!” Eugene was saying; 
“ though why the dickens you people will 
start at such an hour, I don’t know. Hadding- 
ton, I suppose, always must be in a hurry — 
never does for a rising man to admit he’s got 
spare time. But you, Kate! It’s positively 
uncomplimentary ! ” 

He spoke lightly, but there was a troubled 


A MORNING'S AMUSEMENT. ioi 

look on his face ; and as Haddington went off 
to take the tickets he drew near to Kate, and 
said suddenly : 

“ You are determined on this, Kate?” 

“On what?” she asked coldly. 

“ Why, to go like this — to bolt — it almost 
comes to that — leaving things as they are be- 
tween us ? ” 

“Why not?” 

“ And with Haddington ?” 

“Do you mean to insult me?” 

“ Of course not. But how do you think it 
must look to me ? What do you imagine my 
course must be ?” 

“ Really, Eugene, I see no need for this 
scene. I suppose your course will be to >vait 
till I ask you to fulfill your promise, and then 
to fulfill it. You have no sort of cause for 
complaint.” 

Eugene could not resist a smile. 

“You are sublime!” he said. Perhaps he 
would have said more, but at this moment, to 
his intense surprise, his eyes met Stafford’s. 
The latter gave him a quick look, in obedience 
to which he checked his exclamation, and, 
making some excuse about a parcel due and not 
arrived, unceremoniously handed Kate to a 
carriage, bundled Haddington in after her, and 


102 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


walked rapidly to the front of the train, where 
he had just seen Stafford getting into a third- 
class compartment. 

“ What in the world’s the meaning of this, 
my dear old boy ? ” 

“ I have left a note for you.” 

“That will explain ?” 

“ No,” said Stafford, with his unsparing 
truthfulness, “ it will not explain.” 

“ How fagged you look !” 

“ Yes, I am tired.” 

“You must go now, and like this?” 

“ I think that is less bad than anything 
else.” 

“ You can’t tell me?” v 

“ Not now, old fellow. Perhaps I will 
some day.” 

“You’ll let me know what you’re doing? 
Hallo, she’s off ! And, Stafford, nothing ever 
between us ? ” 

“ Why should there be ? ” he answered, with 
some surprise. “ But you know there couldn’t 
be.” 

The train moved on as they shook hands, 
and Eugene retraced his steps to his phaeton. 

“ He’s given her up,” he said to himself, 
with an irrepressible feeling of relief. “ Poor 
old fellow ! Now ” 


A MORNING’S AMUSEMENT. 103 

But Eugene’s reflections were not of a char- 
acter that need or would repay recording. 
He ought to have been ashamed of himself. 
I venture to think he was. Nevertheless, he 
arrived home in better spirits than a man has 
any right to enjoy when he has seen his mis- 
tress depart in a temper and his best friend in 
sorrow. Our spirits are not always obedient 
to the dictates of propriety. It is often equally 
in vain that we call them from the vasty deep, 
or try to dismiss them to it. They are re- 
bellious creatures, whose only merit is their 
sincerity. 

Sir Roderick Ayre allowed few things to 
surprise him, but the fact of any one delib- 
erately starting by the early train was one of 
the few. In regard to such conduct, he re- 
tained all his youthful capacity for wonder. 
Surprise, however, gave way to unrestrained 
and indecent exultation when he learned that 
the early party had consisted of Kate and 
Haddington, and that Eugene himself had 
escorted them to the station. Eugene was in 
too good a temper to be seriously annoyed. 

“ I know it makes me look an ass,” he said, 
as they smoked the after-breakfast pipe, “ but 
I suppose that’s all in the day’s work.” 

“No doubt. It is the day’s work,” said 


104 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


Ayre ; “ but, oh, diplomatic young man, why 
didn’t you tell us at breakfast that the pope 
had also gone ?” 

“ Oh, you know that ? ” 

“ Of course. My man Timmins brings me 
what I may call a way-bill every morning, 
and against Stafford’s name was placed ‘ 8.30 
train.’ ” 

“Useful man, Timmins/’ said Eugene. 
“ Did he happen to add why he had gone ? ” 

“ There are limitations even to Timmins. 
He did not.” 

“You can guess ? ” 

“Well, I suppose I can,” answered Ayre, 
with some resentment. 

“ He’s given it up, apparently.” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ He must have. Awfully cut up he looked, 
poor old chap ! I was glad Kate and Had- 
dington didn’t see him.” 

“ Poor chap ! He takes it hard. Hallo ! 
here’s the fons et origo mail .” 

Morewood joined them. 

“ I have been,” he said gravely, “ rescuing 
my picture. That inspired lunatic had wrapped 
it up in brown paper, and put it among his 
socks in his portmanteau. I couldn’t see it 
anywhere till I routed out the portmanteau. 


A MORNING'S AMUSEMENT. 105 

If it had come to grief I should have entered 
the Academy.’’ 

“Don’t give way so,” said Ayre ; “it’s un- 
manly. Control your emotions.” 

Eugene rose. 

“ Where are you going ? ” 

Eugene smiled, 

“ This,” said Ayre to Morewood, with a 
wave of his hand, “ is an abandoned young 
man.” 

“ It is,” said Morewood. “ Bob Territon 
is going rat-hunting, and proposes we shall 
also go. What say you ? ” 

“ I say yes,” said Sir Roderick, with alacrity. 
“ It’s a beastly cruel sport.” 

“You have lost,” said Morewood, as they 
walked away together. 

“ Wait a bit ! ” said his companion. “ But, 
young Eugene ! It’s a pity that young man 
has no morals.” 

“ Is that so ? ” 

“ Oh ! not simpliciter, you know. Secun- 
dum quid." 

“ Secundum feminam , in fact ? ” 

“Yes; and I brought him up, too.” 

“ ‘ By their fruits ye shall know them.’ But 
here’s Bob and the terriers.” 

“ Don’t you fellows ever have a sister,” said 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


106 

Bob, as he came up ; “ Claudia*’s just savage 
because the pope’s gone. Can’t get her 
morning absolution, you know.” 

“ Are absolution and ablution the same 
word, Morewood ? ” asked Ayre. 

“ Don’t know. Ask the Rector. He’s sure 
to turn up when he hears of the rats.” 

“ I think they must be — a sort of spiritual 
tub. But Morewood will never admit he’s 
been educated. It detracts from his claim to 
genius.” 

Eugene, freed from this frivolous company, 
was not long in discovering Claudia’s where- 
abouts. He felt like a boy released from 
school and, turning his eyes away from future 
difficulties, was determined to enjoy himself 
while he could. Claudia was seated on the 
lawn in complete idleness and, apparently, 
considerable discontent. 

“ Do your guests always scurry away with- 
out saying good-by to anybody, Mr. Lane ? ” 
she asked. 

“ I hope that you, at least, will not. But 
didn’t Kate say good-by, or Haddington ?” 

“ I meant Father Stafford, of course.” 

“ Oh, he had to go. He sent an apology 
to you and all the party.” 

M Did he tell you why he had to go ? ” 


A MORNING'S AMUSEMENT. 


107 

“ No,” said Eugene, regarding her with 
covert attention. 

“ It’s a pity if he’s unaccountable. I like 
him so much otherwise.” 

“You don’t like unaccountable people?” 

Claudia seemed quite willing to let Stafford 
drop out of the conversation. 

“ No,” she said ; “ I tolerate you, Mr. Lane, 
because I always know exactly what you’ll do.” 

“Do you?” he asked, only moderately 
pleased. A man likes to be thought a little 
mysterious. No doubt Claudia knew that. 

“ I don’t think you know what I am going 
to do now.” 

“What?” 

“ I’m going to ask you if you know why 
Father Stafford ” 

“Oh, please, excuse me, Mr. Lane. I can’t 
speculate on your friend’s motives. I don’t 
profess to understand him.” 

This might be indifference; it sounded to 
Eugene very like pique. 

“ I thought you might know.” 

“Mr. Lane,” said Claudia, “either you 
mean something or you don’t. If the one, 
you’re taking a liberty, and one entirely with- 
out excuse ; if the other, you are simply 
tedious,” 


io8 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ I beg your pardon,” said Eugene stiffly. 

Claudia gave a little laugh. 

“ Why do you make me be so aggressive ? 
I don’t want to be. Was I awfully severe?” 

“Yes, rather.” 

“ I meant it, you know. But did you come 
quite resolved to quarrel ? / want to be 

pleasant.” And Claudia raised her eyes with 
a reproachful glance. 

“In anger or otherwise, you are always 
delightful,” said Eugene politely. 

“ I accept that as a diplomatic advance — 
not in its literal sense. After all, I must be 
nice to you. You’re all alone this morning.” 

“Lady Claudia,” said he gravely, “either 
you mean something or you do not. If the 
one ” 

“ Be quiet this moment ! ” she said, laughing. 

He obeyed, and lay back in his low chair 
with a sigh of content. 

“ Yes ; never mind Stafford and never mind 
Kate. Why should we? They’re not here.” 

“ My silence is not to be taken for con- 
sent,” said Claudia, “only it’s too fine a day 
to spend in trying to improve you or, indeed, 
anybody else. But I shall not forget any of 
my friends.” 

Now up to this point Eugene had behaved 


A MORNING' S AMUSEMENT. 109 

tolerably well. It is, however, a dangerous 
thing to set yourself deliberately to study a 
lady’s attractions. Like all other one-sided 
views of a subject, it is apt to carry you too 
far. The sun and the wind were playing 
about in Claudia’s hair, her eyes were full 
of light, and her whole air, in spite of a 
genuine effort after demureness, conveyed to 
any self-respecting man an irresistible chal- 
lenge to make himself agreeable if he could. 
Eugene’s notions of making himself agreeable 
were, as may have been gathered, liberal ; they 
certainly included more than can be considered 
strictly incumbent on young men in society. 
And, besides being polite, Eugene was also 
curious. It is one thing to silently suffer under 
a passion which a sense of duty forbids ; such 
a position has its pleasures. The situation is 
altered when the idea dawns upon you that 
there is no reciprocity of graceful suffering ; 
that, in fact, the lady may prefer somebody else. 
Eugene wanted to know where he stood., 

“Shall you be sorry to leave here?” he 
asked. 

“ My feelings will be mixed. You see, 
Rickmansworth has actually consented to take 
me with him to his moor, and that will be 
great fun,” 


I IO 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“Why, you don’t go killing birds?” 

“No, I don’t kill birds.” 

“There’ll be only a pack of men there.” 

“ That’s all. But I don’t mind that — if the 
scenery is good.” 

“ I believe you’re trying to make me 
angry.” 

“ Oh, no ! I know Sir Roderick doesn’t let 
you be angry. It’s not good form.” 

“Have you no heart, Claudia?” 

“ I don’t know. But I have a prefix.” 

“ Have you, after ten years’ friendship ?” 

Claudia laughed. 

“You make me rather old. Were we 
friends when I was ten ? ” 

“ Oh, bother dates ! I don’t count by time.” 

“Really, Mr. Lane, if you were anybody 
else I should call this absurd. It would be 
flattering you and myself to call it wrong.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because that would imply you were 
serious.” 

“ Would it be wrong if I were ?” 

“Well, it would be generally considered so, 
under the circumstances.” 

“ I don’t care about that. I have endured 
it long enough. O Claudia ! don’t you see?” 

“ I suppose,” thought Claudia, “ I ought to 


A MORNING'S AMUSEMENT. 


HI 


crush him at this point. I think I’ll wait a 
little bit, though.” 

“ See what ?” she said. 

“ Why, that — that ” 

“ Well ? ” 

“ Hang it ! why is it always so abominably 
absurd ? Why, that I love the ground you 
tread on, Claudia ? Is this wretched thing to 
keep us apart ? ” 

“Mr. Lane, you’re magnificent; but isn’t 
there a trifling assumption in your last 
remark ?” 

“ How ?” 

“Well, you seemed — perhaps you didn’t 
mean it — to imply that only that ‘ wretched 
thing ’ kept us apart. That’s rather taking me 
for granted, isn’t it?” 

“ Ah ! you know I didn’t mean it. But if 
things were different, could you ” 

“ A conditional proposal is a new fashion. 
Is that one of Sir Roderick’s ideas ? ” 

Eugene was at last angry. He was silent 
for a moment. Then he said : 

“ I see. I must congratulate you.” 

“ On what ? ” 

“ On having bagged a brace — without 
accident to yourself. But I have had enough 
of it.” 


1 1 2 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


And without waiting for a reply to this 
very rude speech, he rose and flung himself 
across the lawn into the house. 

Claudia seemed less angry than she ought 
to have been. She sat with a little smile fora 
moment, then she threw her hat in the air and 
caught it, then lay back, sighed gently, and 
murmured : 

“ Heigho ! a brace means two, doesn’t it ? 
Who’s the other? Oh! Mr. Haddington, I 
suppose. I didn’t think he knew. Poor 
Eugene ! He’s very angry, or he’d never have 
been so rude. ‘ Bagged a brace ! ’ ” 

And she actually laughed again, and then 
said “ Heigho ! ” again. 

Just at this moment Ayre came up the 
drive, looking very hot and very disgusted. 
Seeing Claudia, he came and sat down. 

'‘Bob’s rat-hunting’s a mere fraud,” he 
said. “ I was there half-an-hour, and we only 
bagged a brace.” 

“ What a curious coincidence ! ” exclaimed 
Claudia. 

“ How a coincidence ?” 

“ Oh, nothing. Bagging a brace means 
killing two, doesn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes. Why ? ” 

“ Oh, I wanted to know.” 


A MORNING'S AMUSEMENT. 


**3 

Ayre looked at her. 

“ Where’s Eugene ? ” 

“He was here just now, but he’s gone into 
the house.” 

Ayre stroked his mustache meditatively. 

“ Did you want him ?” 

“No, not particularly. I thought I should 
find him here.” 

“ You would if you’d come a little sooner.” 

“ Ah ! I’ll go and find him.” 

“ Yes, I should.” 

And off he went. 

“ It is really very pleasant,” said Claudia, 
“ to prevent Sir Roderick finding out things 
that he wants to find out. I think it does me 
credit — and it annoys him so very much. I 
will go and have a nice drive with Mrs. Lane, 
and see some old women. I feel as if I ought 
to do something proper.” 

And perhaps it was about time. 



CHAPTER VIII. 

STAFFORD IN RETREAT, AND SIR RODERICK IN 
ACTION. 

When Stafford got into the train on his 
headlong flight from Millstead Manor, he had 
no settled idea of his destination, and he arrived 
in London without having made much progress 
toward a resolution. Not knowing what he 
wanted, he could not decide where he was most 
likely to find it. Did he want to forget or to 
think; to repent or to resolve ? This is the 
alternative that presents itself to a mind 
puzzled to know whether its doubt is a con- 
cession to sin or a homage to reason. Stafford 
had been bred in a school widely different 
from that which treats all questions as open, 
and all to be referred to the verdict of the 
balance of expediency. Among other lessons, 
he had been taught a deep distrust of the 
instrument by which he was forced to guide 
his actions. But no training had succeeded in 
eradicating a strong mind’s instinct of self- 
confidence, and if up till now he had committed 
no rebellion, it was because his reason had been 
rather a voluntary and eager helper than a 
captive or slave to the tribunal he distinguished 

ii 4 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 1 15 

from it by the name of conscience. With some 
surprise at himself — a surprise that now took 
the place of shame — he recognized that he was 
not ready to take everything for granted, that 
he must know that what he was flying from was 
in fact sin, not only that it might be. That it 
was sin he fully believed, but he would be sure. 
So much triumph his passion extorted from 
him as he paced irresolutely up and down the 
square in front of Euston, after seeing Kate 
and Haddington safely away, while the porter 
and cabman wondered why the traveler seemed 
not sure where he wanted to go. Of their 
wonder and their irreverent suggestions he was 
supremely careless. 

No, he would not go back at once to his 
active work. Not only did his health still 
forbid that — and, indeed, last night’s struggle 
seemed to him to have undone most of the 
good he had gained from the quiet of Millstead 
— but, what was more, he believed, above all, 
in the importance of the state of the pastor’s 
own soul, and was convinced that his work 
would be weak and futile done under such 
conditions ; that, in theological language, there 
would be no blessing on it. When he had once 
reached that conclusion, his path was plain 
before him. He would go to the Retreat. This 


1 10 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


word Retreat has become familiar to those who 
study ecclesiastical items in the paper. But the 
Retreat Stafford had in his mind was not quite 
of the common kind. It had been founded by 
one of the leaders of his party, and was in- 
tended to serve the function of a spiritual casual 
ward, whither those who were for the moment 
at a loss might resort and find refuge until 
they had time to turn round. It was not a 
permanent home for any one. After his stay, 
the visitor returned to the world, if he would ; 
if he were finally disabled he was passed on to 
a permanent residence of another kind. The 
Retreat was a temporary refuge only. Some- 
times it was full, sometimes it was empty, 
save for the Superintendent, as he was called ; 
for religious terms were avoided, and a severe 
neutrality of description forbade the possibility 
of the Retreat itself seeming to take any side 
in the various mental battles for which it 
afforded a clear field, remote from interruption 
and from the bias alike of the world and of 
previous religious prepossessions. A man was 
entirely left to himself at the Retreat. Save at 
the dinner hour, no one spoke to him except 
the Superintendent. The rule of his office was 
that he should always be ready to listen on all 
subjects, and to talk on all indifferent subjects. 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 117 

Advice and exhortation were forbidden to him. 
If a man wanted the ordinary consolations of 
religion, his case was not the special case the 
Retreat was founded to meet. When nobody 
could help a man, and nothing was left for him 
but to go through with the struggle in his own 
soul, then he came to the Retreat. There he 
stayed till he reached some conclusion : that is, 
if he could reach one within a reasonable time ; 
for the pretense of unconquerable hesitation 
was not received. When he arrived at his re- 
solve, he went away : what the resolve was, 
and where he was going, whether to High or 
Low, to Rome or Islington, to Church or Dis- 
sent, or even to Mohammed or Theosophy, or 
what not, or nothing, nobody asked. Such a 
foundation had struck many devoted followers 
of the Founder as little better than a negation 
or an abdication. The Founder thought other- 
wise. “ If forms and words are of any use to 
him, a man will never come,” he said ; “ if he 
comes, let him alone.” And it may be that 
this difference between the Founder and his 
disciples was due to the fact that the Founder 
believed that, given a fair field in any honest 
mind, his views must prevail, whereas the dis- 
ciples were not so strong in faith. 

It is very possible the disciples were right, 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


1 18 

in away; but still the Founder’s scheme now 
and then caught a great prize that the disciples 
would have lost through their over-great med- 
dling. The Founder would have repudiated the 
idea of differences in value between souls. But 
men sometimes act on ideas they repudiate, 
and with very good results. 

Whatever the merits or demerits of the 
Retreat might be, it was just the place Stafford 
wanted. He shrank, almost with loathing, 
from the thought of exposing himself to well- 
meant ministrations from men who were his in- 
feriors: the theory of the equalizing effect of the 
sacred office, which appears to be held in great 
tranquillity by many who see the absurdity of 
parallel ideas applied in other spheres, was one 
of the fictions that proved entirely powerless 
over his mind at this juncture. He did not say 
to himself that fools were fools and blind men 
blind, whatever their office, degree, or pro- 
fession, but he was driven to the Retreat by 
a thought that a brutal speaker might have 
rendered for him in those words without essen- 
tial misrepresentation. Above all, he wanted 
quiet — time to understand the new forces and 
to estimate the good or evil of the new ideas. 

Arriving there late in the evening of the 
same day on which he left Millstead, for the 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 119 

Retreat was situated on the borders of Exmoor 
and the journey from Paddington was long and 
slow, he was received by the Superintendent 
with the grave welcome and studious absence 
of questioning that was the rule of the house. 
The Superintendent was an elderly man, in- 
clining to stoutness and of unyielding placidity. 
It was suspected that the Founder had taken 
pains to choose a man who would observe his 
injunction of not meddling with thorny ques- 
tions the more strictly from his own inability 
to understand them. 

“We are very empty just now,” he said, 
with a sigh. Poor man ! perhaps it was dull. 
“ Only two, besides yourself.” 

“ The fewer the better,” said Stafford, with 
a smile, half in earnest, half humoring the 
genius of the place. 

The Superintendent looked as if he might 
have said something on the other side but re- 
frained, and, without more ado, made Stafford 
at home in the bare little room that was to serve 
him for sleeping and living. Stafford was 
full of weariness, and sank down on the bed 
with a sense of momentary respite. He would 
not begin to think till to-morrow. 

Here we must leave him to wage his un- 
certain battle. When the visible and the in- 


120 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


visible meet in the shock of strife about the 
soul of a man, who may describe the changes 
and chances of the fight ? In the peace of his 
chosen solitude would he re-conquer the vision 
that the clouds had hidden from him ? Or 
would the allurements of his earthly love be 
less strong because its dazzling incitements 
were no longer actually before his eyes ? He 
had refused all aid and all alliance. He had 
chosen to try the issue alone and unbefriended. 
Was he .strong enough ? — strong enough to 
think on his love, and yet not to bow to it ? — 
strong enough to picture to himself all its 
charms, only to refuse to gather them ? Should 
he not have seized every aid that counsel and 
authority could offer him ? Would he not find 
too late that his true strategy had been to fly, 
and not to challenge, the encounter? He had 
fancied he could be himself the impartial judge 
in his own cause, however vast the bribe that 
lay ready to his hand. The issue of his so- 
journ alone could tell whether he had mis- 
judged his strength. 

While Stafford mused and strove the world 
moved on, and with it that small fraction of it 
whose movements most nearly bore on the 
fortunes of the recluse. 

The party at Millstead Manor was finally 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 


I 2 I 


broken up by the departure of the Territons 
and of Morewood about a week after Stafford 
left. The cricket-match came off with great 
dclat ; in spite of a steady thirteen from the 
Rector, who spent two hours in “compiling” 
it — to use the technical term — and of several 
catches missed by Sir Roderick, who was tried 
in vain in all positions in the field, the Manor 
team won by five wickets, and Bob Territon 
felt that his summer had been well spent. 
Ayre lingered on with Eugene, shooting the 
coverts till mid September, when the latter 
abruptly and perhaps rudely announced that 
he could not stand it any longer, and straight- 
way took himself off to the Continent, sending 
a line to Stafford to apprise him of the fact, 
and another to Kate, to say he would have no 
address for the next month. 

For a moment Sir Roderick was at a loss. 
H e was tired of shooting ; he hated yachting ; 
the ordinary country-house visit was nothing 
but shooting in the daytime and unmitigated 
boredom in the evening. Really he didn’t 
know what to do with himself. This alarming 
state of mind might have issued in some incon- 
gruous activity of a useful sort, had not he 
been rescued from it by the sudden discovery 
that he had a mission. This revelation dawned 


122 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


upon him in consequence of a note he received 
from Lord Rickmansworth. It appeared that 
that nobleman had very soon got tired of his 
moor, had resigned it into the eager hands of 
Bob Territon, and was now at Baden-Baden. 
This was certainly odd, and the writer evidently 
knew it would appear so ; he therefore ap- 
pended an explanation which was entirely 
satisfactory to Sir Roderick, but which is, 
happily, irrelevant to the purposes of this story. * 
What is more to the purpose, it further ap- 
peared that Mrs. Welman, Kate Bernard’s 
aunt, had discarded Buxton in favor of the 
same resort, and that Mr. Haddington, M. P., 
had also “ proceeded ” thither. 

“They are at the Victoria,” wrote Rick- 
mansworth ; “ I am at the Badischerhof, and — 
[irrelevant matter]. I go about a good deal 
with them, but it’s beastly slow. Haddington 
is all day in Kate’s pocket, and Kate at best 
isn’t amusing. But what’s Lane up to ? Do 
come out here, old fellow. I’ll find you some 
amusement. Who do you think is here with 
[more irrelevant matter].” 

Sir Roderick was influenced in part, no 
doubt, by the irrelevant matter. But he also 
felt that what concerns us concerned him. He 
had come to a very definite conclusion that 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 123 

Kate Bernard ought not to marry Eugene 
Lane. He was also sure that unless something 
was done the marriage would take place. Kate 
did not care for Eugene, but the match was 
too good to be given up. Eugene would never 
face the turmoil necessary to break it off. 

“ I am the man,” said Sir Roderick to him- 
self. “ I couldn’t catch the parson, but if I 
can’t catch Miss Kate, call me an ass ! ” 

And he took train to Baden, sending off a 
wire to Morewood to join him if he could, for 
a considerable friendship existed between them. 
Morewood, however, wouldn’t come, and Ayre 
was forced to make the journey in solitude. 

“ I thought I should bring him ! ” ex- 
claimed Lord Rickmansworth triumphantly, 
as he received his friend on the platform, 
and conducted him to a very perfect drag 
which stood at the door. “ Oh, you old 
thief ! ” 

Rickmansworth was a tall, broad, reddish- 
faced young man, with a jovial laugh, infinite 
capacity for being amused at things not intrin- 
sically humorous, and manners that he had 
tried, fortunately with imperfect success, to 
model on those of a prize-fighter. Ayre liked 
him for what he was, while shuddering at 
what he tried to be, 


124 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ I didn’t come on that account at all,” he 
said. “ I came to look after some business.” 

“ Get out ! ” said the Earl pleasantly ; 
“ do you think I don’t know you ? ” 

Ayre allowed himself to yield in silence. 
His motives were a little mixed; and, any- 
how, it was not at the moment desirable to 
explain them. His vindication would wait. 

In the afternoon he paid his call on Mrs. 
Welman. She was delighted to see him, not 
only as a man of social repute, but also 
because the good lady was in no little 
distress of mind. The arrangement between 
Kate and Eugene was, as a family arrange- 
ment, above perfection. Mrs. Welman was 
not rich, and like people who are not rich, 
she highly esteemed riches ; like most women, 
she looked with favor on Eugene ; the fact 
of Kate having some money seemed to her, 
as it does to most people, a reason for her 
marrying somebody who had more, instead 
of aiding in the beneficent work of a more 
equal distribution of wealth. But Kate was 
undeniably willful. She treated her engage- 
ment, indeed, as an absolutely binding and 
unbreakable tie — a fact so conclusively ac- 
complished that it could almost be ignored. 
But she received any suggestion of a possible 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. jl -5 

excess in her graciousness toward Haddington 
and her acceptance of his society, as at once 
a folly and an insult ; and as she was of age 
and paid half the bills, all means of suasion 
were conspicuously lacking. Mrs. Wei man 
was in a position exactly the reverse of the 
pleasant one ; she had responsibility without 
power. It is true her responsibility was 
mainly a figment of her own brain, but its 
burden upon her was none the less heavy for 
that. 

It must be admitted that Ayres dealings 
with her were wanting in candor. Under 
the guise of family friendship, he led her on 
to open her mind to him. He extracted 
from her detailed accounts of long excursions 
into the outskirts of the forest, of numberless 
walks in the shady paths, of an expedition to 
the races (where perfect solitude can always 
be obtained), and of many other diversions 
which Kate and Haddington had enjoyed to- 
gether, while she was left to knit “ clouds ” 
and chew reflections in the Kurhaus garden. 
All this, Ayre recognized, with lively but sup- 
pressed satisfaction, was not as it should be. 

“ I have spoken to Kate,” she concluded, 
“ but she takes no notice ; will you do me a 
service ? ” 


126 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Of course,” said Ayre ; “ anything I can.” 

“Will you speak to Mr. Haddington ?” 

This by no means suited Ayre’s book. 
Moreover, it would very likely expose him to 
a snub, and he had no fancy for being 
snubbed by a man like Haddington. 

“ I can hardly do that. I have no posi- 
tion. I’m not her father, or uncle, or any- 
thing of that sort.” 

“You might influence him.” 

“ No, he’d tell me to mind my own busi- 
ness. To speak plainly, my dear lady, it isn’t 
as if Kate couldn’t take care of herself. She 
could stop his attentions to-morrow if she liked. 
Isn’t it so ?” 

Mrs. Welman sadly admitted it was. 

“ The only thing I can do is to keep an 
eye on them, and act as I think best ; that I 
will gladly do.” 

And with this very ambiguous promise poor 
Mrs. Welman was forced to be content. What- 
ever his inward view of his own meaning was, 
Ayre certainly fulfilled to the letter his promise 
of keeping an eye on them. Kate was at first 
much annoyed at his appearance ; she thought 
she saw in him an emissary of Eugene. Sir 
Roderick tactfully disabused her mind of this 
notion, and, without intruding himself, he mam 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 127 

aged to be with them a good deal, and with 
Haddington alone a good deal more. More- 
over, even when absent, he could generally 
have given a shrewd guess where they were 
and what they were doing. Without altogether 
neglecting the other claims at which Rick- 
mansworth had hinted, and which resolved 
themselves into a long-standing and entirely 
platonic attachment, he yet devoted himself 
with zest and assiduity to his self-imposed 
task. 

In its prosecution he contrived to make 
use of Rickmansworth to some extent. The 
young man was a hospitable soul, delighting 
in parties and picnics. Only consent to sit 
with him on his four-in-hand and let him 
drive you, and he cheerfully feasted you and 
all your friends. His acquaintance was large, 
and not, perhaps, very select. Rut Ayre insist- 
ed on the proper distinctions being observed, 
and was indebted to Rickmansworth’s parties 
for many opportunities of observation. He 
was sure Haddington meant to marry Kate 
if he could ; the scruples which had in some 
degree restrained his actions, though not his 
designs, at Millstead, had vanished, and he was 
pushing his suit, firmly and daringly ignoring 
the fact of the engagement. Kate did nothing 


128 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


to remind him of it that Ayre could see, but 
her behavior, on the other hand, convinced 
him that Haddington was to her only a 
second string, and that, unless compelled, 
she would not let Eugene go. She took 
occasion more than once to show him that 
she regarded her relation to Eugene as fully 
existent. No doubt she thought there was a 
chance that such words might find their way 
to Eugene’s ears. It is hardly necessary to 
say they did not. 

• Watch as he might, Ayre’s chance was slow 
in coming. He knew very well that the fact 
of a young lady, deserted by him who ought to 
have been in attendance, consoling herself with 
a flirtation with somebody else, was not enough 
for him to go upon. He must have something 
more tangible than that. He did not, indeed, 
look for anything that would compel Eugene 
to act ; he had no expectation and, to do him 
justice, no hope of that, for he knew Eugene 
would act on nothing but an extreme necessity. 
His hope lay in Kate herself. On her he was 
prepared to have small mercy ; against her he 
felt justified in playing the very rigor of the 
game. But for a long while he had no oppor- 
tunity of beginning the rubber. A fortnight 
wore away, and nothing was done. Ayre 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 129 

determined to wait on events no longer • he 
would try his hand at shaping them. 

“ I wonder if Rick is too great a fool?” he 
said to himself meditatively one morning, as 
he crossed one of the little bridges, and took 
his way to the Kurhaus in search of his friend. 
“ I must try him.” 

He found Lord Rickmansworth alone, but 
quite content. It was one of his happy 
characteristics that he existed with delight 
under almost any circumstances. One of his 
team was lame, and a great friend of his was 
sulky and had sent him away, and yet he sat 
radiantly cheerful, with a large cigar in his 
mouth and a small terrier by his side, sub- 
jecting every lady who passed to a respectful 
and covert but none the less searching and 
severe examination. 

“ I say, Rick, have you seen Haddington 
lately ? ” 

“Yes; he’s gone down the road with Kate 
Bernard to play tennis, or some such foolery.” 

“ With Kate ? ” 

“ Rather ! Didn’t expect anything else, did 

yy 

you t 

“ Does he mean to marry that girl ?” asked 
Ayre, with a face of great innocence, much as 
if it had just occurred to him. 


13 ° 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“Well, he can’t, unless she chucks old 
Eugene over.” 

“ Will she, do you think ? ” 

“Well, I’m afraid not. I’ve got some 
money on that they’re never married, but I 
don’t see my way to handling it.” 

“ Much ? ” 

“Well, no; about twopence-halfpenny — a 
fancy bet.” 

“ I’m glad it’s nothing, because I want you 
to help me, and you couldn’t have if you had 
anything on ; besides, you shouldn’t bet on 
such things.” 

“ Oh, I’m not going to meddle with the 
thing. It’s enough work to prevent one’s self 
getting married, without troubling about other 
people. But I rather like you telling me not 
to bet on it ! ” 

“She wouldn’t suit Eugene.” 

“ No ; lead him the devil of a life.”| 

“ She don’t care for him.” 

“Not a straw.” 

“ Then, why don’t she break it off ? ” 

“Ah, you innocent ?” said Rickmansworth, 
with a broad grin. “ Never heard of such a 
thing as money in the case, did you ? Where 
have you been these last five-and-forty 
years ? ” 


STAFFORD A M D S/R RODERICK:. 131 

“Your raillery’s a little fatiguing, Rick, 
if you don’t mind my saying so.” 

“ Say anything you like, old chap, as long as 
it isn’t swearing. That’s verbot here — penalty 
one mark — see regulations. You must go out- 
side if you want to curse, barring of course 
you’re a millionaire and like to make a splash.” 

“ Rick, Rick, you do not amuse me. I do 
not belong to the Albatross Club.” 

“ No ; over age,” replied his companion 
blandly, and chuckled violently. 

“ I like to score off old Ayre, you know,” 
he said, in reporting the episode afterward. 
“ He thinks himself smart.” 

“ But look here. I want you to do this : 
you go to Haddington and stir him up ; tell 
him to bustle along ; tell him Kate is fooling 
him, and make him put it to her — yes or no.” 

“ Why ? it’s not my funeral ! ” 

“ Is that your latest American ? I wish 
you’d find native slang; we used in my day; 
but I’ll tell you why. It’s because she’s 
keeping him on till she sees what Eugene’ll 
do. She’s treating Eugene shamefully.” 

“Oh, stow all that! Eugene is not so 
remarkably strict, you know.” And Lord 
Rickmansworth winked. 

“ Well, we’ll leave that out,” said Ayre, 


132 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


smiling. “Tell him it’s treating him shame- 
fully.” 

“ That’s more the ticket. But what if she 
says ‘ No’ ? ” 

“ If she says ‘ No’ right out, I’m done,” said 
Ayre. “ But will she?” 

“ The devil only knows ! ” said Lord Rick- 
mansworth. 

“ Do you think you won’t bungle it?” 

“Do you take me for an ass? I’ll make 
him move, Ayre ; he shall give her a chaste 
salute before the day’s out. Old Eugene’s no 
better than he should be, but I’ll see him 
through.” 

Ayre thought privately that his companion 
had perhaps other motives than love for 
Eugene : perhaps family feelings, generally 
dormant, had asserted themselves ; but he had 
the wisdom not to hint at this. 

“ If you can frighten him, he’ll press it 
on.” 

“ Do you think I might lie a bit?” 

“ No, I shouldn’t lie. It’s awkward. Be- 
sides, you know you wouldn’t do it, and you 
couldn’t if you tried.” 

“ I’ll stir him up,” reiterated Rickmans- 
worth. “ Give me my prayer-book and parasol, 
and I’ll go and find him.” 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK . 1 33 

Ay re ignored what he supposed to be the 
joke buried in this saying, and saw his friend 
off on his errand, repeating his instructions as 
he went. 

What Lord Rickmansworth said to Mr. 
Haddington has never, as the newspapers put 
it, transpired. But ever since that date Sir 
Roderick has always declared that Rick is not 
such a fool as he looks. Certainly the envoy 
was well pleased with himself when he rejoined 
his companion at dinner, and after imbibing a 
full glass of champagne, said : 

‘‘To-night, my worthy old friend, you will 
see.” 

“ Did he bite ? ” 

“ He bit. That fellow’s no fool. He saw 
Kate’s game when I pointed it out.” 

“Will he stand up to her?” 

“ Rather ! going to hold a pistol to her 
head.” 

“ I wonder what she’ll say ? ” 

“That’s your lookout. I’ve done my 
stage.” 

Ayre was nearer excitement than he had 
been for a long while. After dinner he could 
not rest. Refusing to accompany Rickmans- 
worth to the entertainment the latter was 
bound for, he strolled out into the quiet walks 


134 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


outside the Kurhaus, which were deserted by 
- visitors and peopled only by a few frugal 
natives, who saved their money and took the 
music of the band from a cheap distance. But 
surely some power was fighting for him, for 
before he had gone a hundred yards he saw 
on one of the seats in front of him two persons 
whom the light of the moon clearly displayed 
as Kate and Haddington. At Baden there is 
a little hillside — one path runs at the bottom, 
another runs along the side of the hill, half- 
way up. Ayre hastily diverted his steps into 
the upper path. A minute’s walk brought him 
directly behind the pair. Trees hid him from 
them ; a seat invited him. For a moment 
he struggled. Then, rubesco ref evens, he sat 
down and deliberately listened. With the 
sophisms by which he sought to justify this 
action, we have no concern ; perhaps he was 
not in reality much concerned about them. 
But what he heard had its importance. 

“ I have been more patient than most men,” 
Haddington was saying. 

“You have no right to speak in that way,” 
Kate protested ; “ it’s — it’s not respectful.” 

“ Kate, have we not got beyond respect?” 

“ I hope not,” said Sir Roderick to him- 
self. 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK . 135 

“I mean,” Haddington went on, “there is 
a point at which you must face realities. 
Kate, do you love me?” 

Ayre leant forward and peered through the 
bushes. 

“ I will not break my engagement.” 

“That is no answer.” 

“ I can’t help it. I have been taught ” 

“ Oh, taught ! Kate, you know Lane ; 
you know what he is. You saw him with 
Lady ” 

“You’re very unkind.” 

“And for his sake you throw away what I 
offer ?” 

“ W on’t you be patient ? ” 

“ Ah, you admit ” 

“No, I don’t!” 

“ But you can’t deny it. Now you make 
me happy.” 

The conversation here became so low in 
tone that Ayre, to his vast disgust, was unable 
to overhear it. The next words that reached 
his ear came again from Haddington. 

“Well, I will wait — I will wait three 
months. If nothing happens then, you will 
break it off?” 

A gentle “Yes” floated up to the eaves- 
dropper. 


1 36 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Though why you want him to break it off 
rather than yourself, I don’t know.” 

“He doesn’t appreciate her morality,” re- 
flected Ayre, with a chuckle. 

“ Kate, we are promised to one another ? 
secretly, if you like, but promised?” 

“ I’m afraid it’s very wrong.” 

“ Why, he deliberately insulted you ! ” 

The tones again became inaudible ; but 
after a pause there came a sound that made 
Ayre almost jump. 

“ By Jove ! ” he whispered in his excitement. 
“Confound these trees! Was it only her 
hand, or ” 

“Then I have your promise, dear?” 

“Yes; in three months. But I must go 
in. Aunt will be angry.” 

“You won’t let him win you over?” 

“ He has treated me badly ; but I don’t 
.want it said I jilted him.” 

They had risen by now. 

“You ask such a lot of me,” said Had- 
dington. 

“ Ah ! I thought you said you loved me. 
Can’t you wait three months?” 

“ I suppose I must. But, Kate, you are 
sincere with me? Tell me you love me.” 

Again Ayre leant forward. They had 


STAFFORD AND SIR RODERICK. 137 

begun to walk away, but now Haddington 
stopped, and laying his hand on Kate’s arm, 
detained her. “ Say you love me,” he said 
again. 

“Yes, I love you!” said Kate, with com- 
mendable confusion, and they resumed their 
walk. 

“ What is her game?” Ayre asked himself. 
“ If she means to throw Eugene over, why 
doesn’t she do it right out ? I don’t believe 
she does. She’s afraid he’ll throw her over. 
And, by Jove ! she fobbed that fool off again ! 
We’re no further forward than we were. If 
he makes trouble about this she’ll deny the 
whole thing. Miss Bernard is a lady of talent. 
But — no, can I ? Yes, I will. Rather than 
let her win, I’ll step in. I’ll go and see her 
to morrow. We shall neither of us be in a 
position to reproach the other. But I’ll see 
what I can do. But Haddington ! To think 
she should get round him again ! ” 


CHAPTER rX. 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN. 

Lord Rickmansworth was enjoying himself. 
Over and above the particular pleasures for 
whose sake he had come to Baden, he relished 
intensely the new attitude in which he found 
himself standing toward Ayre. Throughout 
their previous acquaintance it had been Rick- 
mansworth who was eager and excited, Ayre 
who applied the cold water. Now the parts 
were reversed, and the younger man found 
great solace in jocosely rallying his senior on 
his unwonted zeal and activity. Ayre accepted 
his friend’s jocosity and his own excitement 
with equal placidity. Reproaches had never 
stirred him to exertion ; ridicule would not 
stop him now. He took leave to add himself 
to the materials for slightly contemptuous 
amusement that the world had hitherto afford- 
ed him, and he found his own absurd actions a 
very sensible addition to his resources. He 
realized why people who never act on impulse 
and never do uncalled-for things are not only 
dull to others, but suffer boredom themselves. 
However the Millstead love affairs affected the 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN. 139 

principal actors, there can be no question that 
they relieved Sir Roderick Ayre from ennui 
for a considerable number of months and ex- 
ercised a very wholesome effect on a man who 
had come to take pride in his own miserable 
incapacity for honest emotion. 

H e rose the next morning as nearly with 
the lark as could reasonably be expected ; more 
nearly with the lark than the domestic staff of 
the Badischerhof at all approved of. Was not 
Kate Bernard in the habit of taking the waters 
at half-past seven ? And in solitude ! For 
Haddington’s devotion was not allowed by him 
to interfere with that early ride which is so 
often a mark of legislators, and an assertion, 
I suppose, of the strain on their minds that 
might be ignored or doubted if not backed up 
by some such evidence. The strain, of course, 
followed Haddington to Baden ; it was among 
his most precious appurtenances ; and Ayre, 
relying upon it, had little doubt that he could 
succeed in finding Kate alone and unpro- 
tected. 

He was not deceived. He found Kate just 
disposing of her draught, and an offer of 
his company for a stroll was accepted with 
tolerable graciousness. Kate distrusted him, 
but she thought there was use in keeping on 


140 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


outwardly good terms ; and she had no sus- 
picion of his shameless conduct the night be- 
fore. Ayre directed their walk to the very 
same seat on which she and Haddington had 
sat. As they passed, either romance or lazi- 
ness suggested to Kate that they should sit 
down. Ayre accepted her proposal without 
demur, asked and obtained leave for a ciga- 
rette, and sat for a few moments in apparent 
ease and vacancy of mind. He was thinking 
how to begin. 

“ Ought one ever to do evil that good may 
come?” he did begin, a long way off. 

“ Dear me, Sir Roderick, what a curious 
question ! I suppose not.” 

“ I’m sorry ; because I did evil last night, 
and I want to confess.” 

“ I really don’t want to hear,” said Kate, in 
some alarm. There’s no telling what men will 
say when they become confidential, and Kate’s 
propriety was a tender plant. 

“ It concerns you.” 

“Me? Nonsense! How can it?” 

“In order to serve a friend, I did a — well 
— a doubtful thing.” 

Kate was puz-zled. 

“ You are in a curious mood, Sir Roderick. 
Do you often ask moral counsel?” 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN. 


141 

“ I am not going to ask it. I am, with 
your kind permission, going to offer it.” 

“You are going to offer me moral coun- 
sel ? ” 

“ I thought of taking that liberty. You 
see, we are old friends.” 

“ We have known one another some time.” 

Ayre smiled at the implied correction. 

“ Do you object to plain speaking?” 

“ That depends on the speaker. If he has 
a right, no ; if not, yes.” 

“You mean I should have no right?” 

“ I certainly don’t see on what ground.” 

“If not an old friend of yours, as I had 
hoped to be allowed to rank myself, I am, 
anyhow, a very old friend of Eugene’s.” 

“ What has Mr. Lane to do with it ? ” 

“ As an old friend of his ” 

“ Excuse me, Sir Roderick ; you seem to 
forget that Mr. Lane is even more than an 
old friend to me.” 

“ He should be, no doubt,” said Ayre 
blandly. 

“ I shall not listen to this. No old friend- 
ship excuses impertinence, Sir Roderick.” 

“ Pray don’t be angry. I have really 
something to say, and — pardon me — you must 
hear it.” 


142 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ And what if I refuse ?” 

“True; I did wrong to say 'must.’ You 
are at perfect liberty. Only, if you refuse, 
Eugene must hear it.” 

Kate paused. Then, with a laugh, she 
said : 

“ Perhaps I am taking it too gravely. What 
is this great thing I must hear ? ” 

“ Ah ! I hoped we could settle it amicably. 
It’s merely this: you must release Eugene 
from his engagement.” 

Kate did not trouble to affect surprise. She 
knew it would be useless. 

“Did he send you to tell me this?” 

“You know he didn’t.” 

“ Then whose envoy are you ? Ah ! per- 
haps you are Claudia Territon’s chosen 
knight ? ” 

“ Not at all,” said Ayre, still unruffled. 
“ I have had no communication with Lady 
Claudia — a fact of which you have no right to 
affect doubt.” 

“ Then what do you mean ?” 

“ I mean you must release Eugene.” 

“ Pray tell me why,” asked she calmly, but 
with a calm only obtained after effort. 

“ Because it is not usual — and in this matter 
it seems to me usage is right — it is not usual for 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN . 


143 


a young lady to be engaged to two men at 
once.” 

“ You are merely insolent. I will wish you 
good-morning.” 

“ I am glad you understand my insinuation. 
Explanations are so tedious. Where are you 
going, Miss Bernard ? ” 

“ Home.” 

“Then I must tell Eugene.” 

“Tell him what you like.” But she sat 
down again. 

“ You are engaged to Eugene ? ” 

“Of course.” 

“You are also engaged to Spencer Had- 
dington ? ” 

“ It’s untrue ; you know it’s untrue. Are 
you an old woman, to think a girl can’t speak 
to a man without being engaged to him ? ” 

“ I must congratulate you on your liberality 
of view, Miss Bernard. I had hardly given 
you credit for it. But you know it isn’t un- 
true. You are under a promise to give Had- 
dington your hand in three months : not, mark 

you, a conditional promise — an absolute prom- 

• _ >> 
lse. 

“ That is not a happy guess.” 

“ It’s not a guess at all. No doubt you 
mean it to be conditional. He understood, and 


144 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


you meant him to understand, it as an absolute 
promise.” 

“ How dare you accuse me of such 
things ? ” 

“ Nothing short of absolute knowledge 
would so far embolden me.” 

“Absolute knowledge?” 

“Yes, last night.” 

Kate’s rage carried her away. She turned 
on him in fury. 

“ You listened ! ” 

“Yes, I listened.” 

“ Is that what a gentleman does ?” 

“ As a rule, it is not.” 

“ I despise you fora mean dastard ! I have 
no more to say to you.” 

“ Come, Miss Bernard, let us be reasonable. 
We are neither of us blameless.” 

“ Do you think Eugene would listen to such 
a tale ? And such a person ? ” 

“ He might and he might not. But Had- 
dington would.” 

“ What could you tell him ? ” 

“ I could tell him that you’re making a fool 
of him — keeping him dangling on till you have 
arranged the other affair one way or the other. 
What would he say then ?” 

Kate knew that Haddington was already 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN. 145 

tried to the uttermost. She knew what he 
would say. 

“You see I could — if you’ll allow me the 
metaphor — blow you out of the water.” 

“You daren’t confess how you got the 
knowledge.” 

“ Oh, dear me, yes,” said Ayre, smiling. 
“ When you’re opening a blind man’s eyes he 
dosen’t ask after your moral character. You 
must consider the situation on the hypothesis 
that I am shameless.” 

Kate was not strong enough to carry on 
the battle. She had fury, but not doggedness. 
She burst into tears. 

“ If I were doing all you say, whose fault 
was it ? ” she sobbed. “ Didn’t Eugene treat 
me shamefully ? ” 

“ If he flirted a little, it was in part your 
fault. If you had flirted a little with Had- 
dington, I should have said nothing. But this 
— well, this is a little strong.” 

“ I am a very unhappy girl,” said Kate. 

“ It isn’t as if you cared twopence for 
Eugene, you know.” 

“No, I hate him!” said Kate, unwisely 
yielding to anger again. 

“ I thought so. And you will do what I 
ask ? ” 


146 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


‘'If I don’t what will you do?” 

“ I shall write to Eugene. I shall see Had- 
dington ; and I shall see your aunt. I shall 
tell them alL that I know, and how I know it. 
Come, Miss Bernard, don’t be foolish. You 
had better take Haddington.” 

“ I know it’s all a plot. You’re all fighting 
in that little creature’s interest.” 

“ Meaning ? ” 

“ Claudia Territon. But if I can help it, 
Eugene shall never marry her.” 

“ That’s another point.” 

“ His friend Father Stafford will have to 
be considered there.” 

“ Do not let us drift into that. Will you 
write ? ” 

“ To whom ? ” 

“ To Eugene.” 

Kate looked at him with a healthy hatred. 

“And you will tell Haddington he needn’t 
wait those three months?” 

“ I suppose you’re proud of yourself now !” 
she broke out. “ First eavesdropping, and 
then bullying a girl ! ” . 

“ I’m not at all proud of myself, and I am, 
if you’d believe it, rather sorry for you.” 

“ I shall take care to let your friends know 
my opinion of you.” 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN. 


147 


“ Certainly — with any details you think 
advisable. Have I your promise ? Is it any 
use struggling any longer? This scene is so 
very unpleasant.” 

“ Won’t you give me a week ?” 

“Not a day ! ” 

Kate drew herself up with a sort of dig- 
nity. 

“ I despise you and your schemes, and 
Eugene Lane, and Claudia Territon, and all 
your crew ! ” she allowed herself to say. 

“ But you promise ?” 

“Yes, I promise. There! Now, may I 
go?” 

Ayre courteously took off his hat, and 
stood on one side, holding it in his hand and 
bowing slightly as she swept indignantly by 
him. 

“ I’ll give her a day to tell Haddington, 
and three days to tell Eugene. Unless she 
does, I must go through it all again, and it’s 
damnably fatiguing. She’s not a bad sort — 
fought well when she was cornered. But I 
couldn’t let Eugene do it — I really couldn’t. 
Ugh ! I’ll go back to breakfast.” 

Kate was cowed. She told Haddington. 
Let us pass over that scene. She also wrote to 
Eugene, addressing the letter to Millstead 


14 & IFATHER STAFFORD. 

Manor. Eugene was not at Millstead Manor ; 
and if Ayre had hastily assumed that his 
fiance £ would be in possession of his address, 
was it her business to undeceive him? She 
was by no means inclined to do one jot more 
than fulfill the letter of her bond — whereby it 
came to pass that Eugene did not receive the 
letter for nearly two months and did not 
know of his recovered liberty all that time. 
For Haddington, in his joy, easily promised 
silence for a little while ; it seemed only 
decent; and even Ayre could not refuse to 
agree with him that, though Eugene must be 
told, nobody else ought to be until Eugene 
had formally signified his assent to the lady’s 
transfer. Ayre could not take upon himself, 
on his friend’s behalf, the responsibility of 
dispensing with this ceremony, though he was 
sure it would be a mere ceremony. 

As for Ayre himself, when his task was 
done he straightway fled from Baden. He 
was a hardened sinner, but he could not face 
Mrs. Welman. 

It was, however, plainly impossible to con- 
fine the secret so strictly as to prevent it coming 
to the knowledge of Lord Rickmansworth. In- 
deed he had a right to know the issue, for he had 
been a sharer in the design ; and accordingly, 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN. 


149 


when he also left Baden and betook himself to 
his own house to spend what was left of the 
autumn, he carried locked in his heart the 
news of the fresh development. On the whole, 
he observed the injunction of silence urgently 
laid upon him by Ayre with tolerable faithful- 
ness. But there are limits to these things, and 
it never entered Rickmansworth’s head that his 
sister was included among the persons who 
were to remain in ignorance till the matter was 
finally settled. He met Claudia at the family 
reunion at Territon Park in the beginning of 
October, and when she and he and Bob were 
comfortably seated at dinner together, among 
the first remarks he made — indeed, he was 
brimming over with it — was : 

“ I suppose you’ve heard the news, 
Clan?” 

What with one thing — packing and unpack- 
ing, traveling, perhaps less obvious troubles 
— Lady Claudia was in a state which, if it 
manifested itself in a less attractive person, 
might be called snappish. 

“ I never hear any news,” she answered 
shortly. 

“Well, here’s some for you,” replied the 
Earl, grinning. “ Kate has chucked Eugene 
over.” 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


15 ° 

“ Nonsense ! ” But she started and colored, 
all the same. 

“ I suppose you were at Baden and saw it 
all, and I wasn’t ! ” said Rickmansworth, with 
ponderous satire. “ So we won’t say any more 
about it.” 

“ Well, what do you mean ?” 

“ No ; never mind ! It doesn’t matter — all a 
mistake. I’m always making some beastly 
blunder— eh, Bob ? ” and he winked gently 
at his appreciative brother. 

“Yes, you’re an ass, of course!” said Bob, 
entering into the family humor. 

“Good thing I’ve got a sister to keep me 
straight ! ” pursued the Earl, who was greatly 
amused with himself. “ Might have gone 
about believing it, you know.” 

Claudia was annoyed. Brothers are annoy- 
ing at times. 

“ I don’t see any fun in that,” she said. 

Lord Rickmansworth drank some beer 
(beer was theTerriton drink), and maintained 
silence. 

The butler came in with his satellite, 
swept away the beer and the other impedi- 
menta, and put on dessert. The servants dis- 
appeared, but silence still reigned unbroken. 

Claudia arose, and went round to her 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN. 15 1 

brothers chair. He was ostentatiously busy 
with a large plum. 

“ Rick, dear, won’t you tell me ? ” 

“Tell you! Why, it’s all nonsense, you 
know.” 

“ Rick, dear!” said Claudia again, with her 
arm round his neck. 

He was going to carry on his jest a little 
further, when he happened to look at her. 

“ Why, Clau, you look as if you were 
almost ” 

“ Never mind that,” she said quickly. 
“ Oh ! do tell me.” 

“ It is quite true. She’s written breaking 
it off, and has accepted Haddington. But it’s 
a secret, you know, till they’ve heard from 
Eugene, at all events. Must hear in a day or 
two.” 

“ Is it really true ?” 

“ Of course it is.” 

Claudia kissed him, and suddenly ran out 
of the room. 

The brothers looked at one another. 

“I hope that’s all right?” said the elder 
questioningly. 

“ I expect so,” answered the younger. 
“ But, you see, you don’t quite know where to 
have Eugene,” 


152 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ I shall know where to have him, if neces- 
sary.” 

“You’d better keep your hoof out of it, old 
man,” said Bob candidly. 

Pursuing his train of thought, Rickmans- 
worth went on : 

“Must have been rather a queer game at 
Millstead ?” 

“Yes. There was Eugene and Kate, and 
Claudia and the parson, and old Ayre sticking 
his long nose into it.” 

“Trust old Ayre for that; and is it a 
case ?” 

“ Well, now Kate’s out of it, I expect it is, 
only you don’t know where to have Eugene. 
And there’s the parson.” 

“ Yes ; Ayre told us a bit about him. But 
she doesn’t care for him ?” 

“ She didn’t tell him so — not by any 
means,” said Bob ; “ and I bet he’s far gone on 
her.” 

“ She can’t take him.” 

“ Good Lord ! no.” 

Though how they proposed to prevent it 
did not appear. 

“Think Lane’ll write to her?” 

“ He ought to, right off.” 

“ Queer girl, ain’t she ? ” 


THE BATTLE OF BADEN . 


T 53 


“ Deuced ! ” 

“ Old Ayre ! I say, Bob, you should have 
seen the old sinner at Baden.” 

“What? with Kate?” 

“ No ; the other business.” 

And they plunged into matters with which 
we need not concern ourselves, and proceeded 
to rend and destroy the character of that most 
respectable, middle-aged gentleman, Sir Roder- 
ick Ayre. The historian hastens to add that 
their remarks were, as a rule, entirely devoid of 
truth, with which general comment we may 
leave them. 


CHAPTER X. 

MR. MOREWOOD IS MOVED TO INDIGNATION. 

When Morewood was at work he painted 
portraits, and painted them uncommonly well. 
Of course he made his moan at being com- 
pelled to spend all his time on this work. He 
was not, equally of course, in any way com- 
pelled, except in the sense that if you want to 
make a large income you must earn it. This 
is the sense in which many people are com- 
pelled to do work, which they give you to 
understand it is not the most suited to their 
genius, and it must be admitted that, although 
their words are foolish, not to say insincere, 
yet their deeds are sensible. There can be no 
mistake about the income, and there often is 
about the genius. Morewood, whose eccen- 
tricity stopped short of his banking account, 
painted his portraits like other people, and 
only deviated into landscape for a month in 
the summer, with the unfailing result of 
furnishing a crop of Morewoodesque parodies 
on Mother Nature that conclusively proved 
the fates were wiser than the painter. 

This year it so chanced that he chose the 

*54 


MR. MORE WOOD IS INDIGNANT. 155 

wilds of Exmoor for the scene of his outrages. 
He settled down in a small inn and plied his 
brush busily. Of course he did not paint any- 
thing that the ordinary person cared to see, or 
in the way in which it would appear to such 
person. But he was greatly pleased with his 
work ; and one day, as he threw himself down 
on a bank at noon and got out his bread and 
cheese, he was so carried away, being by 
nature a conceited man, as to exclaim : 

“ My head of Stafford was the best head done 
these hundred years ; and that’s the best bit of 
background done these hundred and fifty ! ” 

The frame of the phrase seemed familiar to 
him as he uttered it, and he had just succeeded 
in tracing it back to the putative parentage of 
Lord Verulam, when, to his great astonishment, 
he heard Stafford’s voice from the top of the 
bank, saying : 

“ As I am in your mind already, Mr. More- 
wood, I feel my bodily appearance less of an 
intrusion on your solitude.” 

“Why, how in the world did you come 
here ? ” 

The spot was within ten miles of the 
Retreat, and part of Stafford’s treatment for 
himself consisted of long walks ; but he only 
replied : 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


I5 6 

“ I am staying near here.” 

“ For health, eh ? ” 

“ Yes — for health.” 

“Well, I’m glad to see you. How are 
you ? You don’t look very first-class.” 

Stafford came down the bank without re- 
plying, and sat down. He was, in spite of it 
being the country and very hot, dressed in his 
usual black, and looked paler and thinner than 
ever. 

“ Have some lunch ? ” 

Stafford smiled. 

“ There’s only enough for one,” he said. 

“ Nonsense, man ! ” 

“ No, really ; I never take it.” 

A pause ensued. Stafford seemed to be 
thinking, while Morewood was undoubtedly 
eating. Presently, however, the latter said : 

“ You left us rather suddenly at Millstead.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Sent for ? ” 

“You of all men know why I went, Mr. 
Morewood.” 

“ If you don’t mind my admitting it, I do. 
But most people are so thin-skinned.” 

“I am not thin-skinned — not in that way. 
Of course you know. You told me.” 

“ That head?” 


MR. MORE WOOD IS INDIGNANT \ 157 

“Yes ; you did me a service.” 

“Well, I think I did, and I’m glad to hear 
you say so.” 

“Why?” 

“ Shows you’ve come to your senses,” said 
Morewood, rapidly recovering from his lapse 
into civility. 

Stafford seemed willing, even anxious, to 
pursue the subject. The regimen at the 
Retreat was no doubt severe. 

“ What do you mean by coming to my 
senses ? ” 

“ Why, doing what any man does when he 
finds he’s in love — barring a sound reason 
against it.” 

“ And that is ? ” 

“Tryhisluck. You needn’t look at me. I’ve 
tried my luck before now, and it was damned 
bad luck. So here I am, a musty old curmud- 
geon ; and there’s Ayre, a snarling old cur ! ” 

“ I don’t bore you about it?” 

“ No, I like jawing.” 

“ Well then, I was going to say, of course 
you don’t know how it struck me.” 

“Yes, I do, but I don’t think any the bet- 
ter of it for that.” 

“ You knew about my vow ? I suppose you 
think that ?-” 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


158 

“ Bosh ? Yes, I do. I think all vows bosh ; 
but without asking you to agree to that, though 
I think I did ask the Bishop of Bellminster to, I 
do say this one is utter bosh. Why, your own 
people say so, don’t they ? ” 

“ My own people? The people I suppose 
you mean don’t say so. I took a vow never to 
marry — there were even more stringent terms 
— but that’s enough.” 

“ Well?” 

“ A vow,” continued Stafford, “ that you 
won’t marry till you want to is not the same as 
a vow never to marry.” 

“ No. I think I could manage the first 
sort.” 

“ The first sort,” said Stafford, with a smile, 
“ is nowadays a popular compromise.” 

“ I detest compromises. That’s why I liked 
you.” 

“ You’re advising me to make one now.” 

“No, I advise you to throw up the whole 
thing.” 

“That’s because you don’t believe in any- 
thing ? ” 

“Yes, probably.” 

“ Suppose you believed all I believe and 
had done all I had ? ” 

“ How do you mean ?” 


MR. MORE WOOD IS INDIGNANT . 159 

“You believed what a priest believes — in 
heaven and hell — the gaining God and the 
losing him — in good and evil. Supposing you, 
believing this, had given your life to God, and 
made your vow to him — had so proclaimed 
before men, had so lived and worked and 
striven ! Supposing you thought a broken 
vow was death to your own soul and a trap 
to the souls of others — a baseness, a treason, 
a desertion — more cowardly than a soldier’s 
flight — as base as a thief’s purloining — mean- 
ing to you and those who had trusted you the 
death of good and the triumph of evil?” 

He sat still, but his voice was raised in rapid 
and intense utterance ; he gazed before him 
with starting eyes. 

“ All that,” he went on, “ it meant to me — 
all that and more — the triumph of the beast in 
me — passion and desire rampant — man for- 
saken and God betrayed — my peace forever 
gone, my honor forever stained. Can’t you 
see? Can’t you see ? ” 

Morewood rose and paced up and down. 

“ Now — now can you judge ? You say you 
knew — did you know that ? ” 

“ Do you still believe all that ? ” 

“Yes, all, and more than all. For a 
moment — a day — perhaps a week, I drove 


i6o 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


myself to doubt. I tried to doubt — I rejoiced 
in it. But I cannot. As God is above us, I 
believe all that.” 

“ If you break this vow you think you will 
be ?” 

“The creature I have said? Yes — and 
worse.” 

“ I think the vow utter nonsense,” said 
Morewood again. 

“ But if you thought as I think, then would 
your love— yes, and would a girl’s heart, weigh 
with you ? ” 

Morewood stood still. 

“ I can hardly realize it,” he said, “in a man 
of your brain. But ” 

“ Yes ?” said Stafford, looking at him almost 
as if he were amused, for his sudden outburst 
had left him quite calm. 

“ If I believed that, I’d cut off my hand 
rather than break the vow.” 

“ I knew it ! ” cried Stafford, “ I knew it ! ” 

Morewood was touched with pity. 

“If you’re right,” he said, “it won’t be so 
hard to you. You’ll get over it.” 

“ Get over it ? ” 

“Yes; what you believe will help you. 
You’ve no choice, you know.” 

Stafford still wore a look of half-amusement. 


MR. MORE WOOD IS INDIGNANT. l6l 

“You have never felt belief?” he asked. 

“ Not for many years. That’s all gone.” 

“ You think you have been in love ? ” 

“ Of course I have — half a dozen times.” 

“No more than the other,” said Stafford 
decisively. 

Moreword was about to speak, but Stafford 
went on quickly : 

“ I have told you what belief is — I could tell 
you what love is ; you know no more the one 
than the other. But why should I ? I doubt 
if you would understand. You think you 
couldn’t be shocked. I should shock you. 
Let it be. I think I could charm you, too. 
Let that be.” 

A pause followed. Stafford still sat motion- 
less, but his face gradually changed from its 
stern aspect to fhe look that Morewood had 
once caught on his canvas. 

“You’re in love with her still?” he 
exclaimed. 

“ Still?” 

“Yes. Haven’t you conquered it? I’m a 
poor hand at preaching, but, by Jove! if I 
thought like you, I’d never think of the girl 
again.” 

“ I mean to marry her,” said Stafford quietly. 
“ I have chosen.” 


1 62 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


Morewood was in very truth shocked. But 
Stafford’s morals, after all, were not his care. 

“ Perhaps she won’t have you,” he sug- 
gested at last, as though it were a happy 
solution. 

Stafford laughed outright. 

“ Then I could go back to my priesthood, 
I suppose ?” 

“Well — after a time.” 

“As a burglar who is caught before his 
robbery goes back to his trade. As if it 
made the smallest difference — as if the result 
mattered ! ” 

“ I suppose you are right there.” 

“ Of course. But she will have me.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” 

“ I don’t doubt it. If I doubted it, I should 
die.” 

“ I doubt it.” 

“ Pardon me ; I dare say you do.” 

“ You don’t want to talk about that ? ” 

“It isn’t worth while. I no more doubt it 
than that the sun shines. Well, Mr. More- 
wood, I am obliged to you for hearing me out. 
I had a curiosity to see how my resolution 
struck you.” 

“If you have told me the truth, it strikes me 
as devilish. I’m no saint ; but if a man believes 


Mr. more wood is indignant . 163 

in good, as you do, by God, he oughtn’t to 
trample it underfoot ! ” 

Stafford took no notice of him. He rose 
and held out his hand. “ I’m going back to 
London to-morrow,” he said, “ to wait till she 
comes.” 

“ God help you ! ” said Morewood, with a 
sudden impulse. 

“ I have no more to do with God,” said 
Stafford. 

“ Then the devil help you, if you rely on 
him ! ” 

“ Don’t be angry,” he said, with a swift 
return of his old sweet smile. “ In old days 
I should have liked your indignation. I 
still like you for it. But I have made my 
choice.” 

“ ‘ Evil, be thou my good.’ Is that it ? ” 

“Yes, if you like. Why talk about it any 
more ? It is done.” 

He turned and walked away, leaving 
Morewood alone to finish his forgotten lunch. 

He could not get the thought of the man 
out of his mind all day. It was with him as 
he worked, and with him when he sat after 
dinner in the parlor of his little inn, with his 
pipe and whisky and water. He was so full 
of Stafford that he could not resist the impulse 



164 FATHER STAFFORD. 

to tell somebody else, and at last he took a 
sheet of paper. 

“ I don’t know if he’s in town,” he said, 
“but I’ll chance it ; ” and he began : 

Dear Ayre : 

By chance down here I met the parson. He is mad. 
He painted for me the passion of belief — which he 
said I hadn’t and implied I couldn’t feel. He threatened 
to paint the passion of love, with the same assertion 
and the same implication. He is convinced that if 
he breaks his vow (you remember it, of course) he’ll 
be worse than Satan. Yet his face is set to break it. 
You probably can’t help it, and wouldn’t if you could, 
for you haven’t heard him. He’s going to London. 
Stop him if you can before he gets to Claudia Territon. 
I tell you his state of mind is hideous. 

Yours, 

A. Morewood. 

This somewhat incoherent letter reached 
Sir Roderick Ayre as he passed through 
London, and tarried a day or two in early 
October. He opened it, read it, and put it 
down on the breakfast-table. Then he read 
it again, and ejaculated : 

“ Talk about madness ! Why, because Staf- 
ford’s mad — if he is mad — must our friend the 
painter go mad too ? Not that I see he is 
mad. He’s only been stirring up old More- 
wood’s dormant piety.” 


MR. MO RE WOOD IS INDIGNANT. 165 

He lit his cigar, and sat pondering the 
letter. 

“ Shall I try to stop him ? If Claudia and 
Eugene have fixed up things it would be 
charitable to prevent him making a fool of 
himself. Why the deuce haven’t I heard any- 
thing from that young rascal ? Hullo ! who’s 
that?” 

•He heard a voice outside, and the next 
moment Eugene himself rushed in. 

“ Here you are ! ” he said. “ Thought I 
should find you. You can’t keep away from 
this dirty old town.” 

“Where do you spring from?” asked 
Ayre. 

“ Liverpool. I found the Continent slow, 
so I went to America. Nothing moving there, 
so I came back here. Can you give me 
breakfast ?” 

Ayre rang the bell, and ordered a new 
breakfast ; as he did so he took up More- 
wood’s letter and put it in his pocket. 

Eugene went on talking with gay affec- 
tation about his American experiences. Only 
when he was through his breakfast did he 
approach home topics. 

“ Well, how’s everybody ? ” 

Ayre waited for a more definite question. 


1 66 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Seen the Territons lately ? ” 

“ Not very. Haven't you ?” 

“ No. They weren’t over there, you know. 
Are they alive ? ” 

“ My young friend, are you trying to de- 
ceive me? You have heard from at least one 
of them, if you haven’t seen them.” 

“ I haven’t — not a line. We don’t corre- 
spond : not comme il faut .” 

“Oh, you haven’t written to Claudia?” 

“ Of course not.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Why should I ? ” 

“ Let us go back to the previous question. 
Have you heard from Miss Bernard?” 

“ Why probe my wounds ? Not a single 

1 * »> 
me. 

“ Confound her impudence ! she never 
wrote ! ” 

“ I don’t know why she should. But in 
case she ought, I’m bound to say she couldn’t.” 

“ Why not ? She said she would ; she said 
so to me.” 

“She couldn’t have said so. You must 
have misunderstood her. I left no address, 
you know ; and I had no difficulty in eluding 
interviewers — not being a prize-fighter or a 
minor poet.” 


MR. MORE WOOD IS INDIGNANT. 


167 


Sir Roderick smiled. 

“ Gad ! I never thought of that. She held 
me, after all.” 

“ What on earth are you driving at ?” 

“If there’s one thinof I hate more than 
another, it’s a narrative ; but I see I’m in for 
it. Sit still and hold your tongue till I’m 
through with it.” 

Eugene obeyed implicitly ; and Ayre, not 
without honest pride, recounted his Baden 
triumph. 

“ And unless she’s bolder than I think, 
you’ll find a letter to that effect.” 

Eugene sat very quiet. 

“Well, you don’t seem overpleased, after 
all. Wasn’t I right ? ” 

“ Quite right, old fellow. But, I say, is 
she in love with Haddington ?” 

“ Ah, there’s your beastly vanity ? I think 
she is rather, you know, or she’d never have 
given herself away so.” 

“ Rum taste ! ” said Eugene, whose relief at 
his freedom was tempered by annoyance at 
Kate’s insensibility. “ But I’m awfully obliged. 
And, by Jove, Ayre, it’s new life to me !” 

“ I thought so.” 

Eugene had got over his annoyance. A 
sudden thought seemed to strike him. 


1 68 FATHER STAFFORD. 

“ I say, does Claudia know?” 

“ Rickmansworth’s sure to have told her on 
the spot. She must have known it a month ; 
and what’s more, she must think you’ve known 
it a month.” 

“ Inference that the sooner I show up the 
better.” 

“ Exactly. What, are you off now ? Do 
you know where she is?” 

“ I shall send a wire to Territon Park. 
Rick’s sure to be there if she isn’t, and I’ll 
go down and find out about it.” 

“Wait a minute, will you? Have you 
heard from your friend Stafford lately?” 

A shadow fell on Eugene’s face. 

“ No. But that’s over. Must be, or he’d 
never have bolted from Millstead.” 

Ayre was silent a moment. Morewood’s 
letter told him that Stafford had set out to go 
to Claudia. What if he and Eugene met? 
Ayre had not much faith in the power of 
friendship under such circumstances. 

“ I think, on the whole, that I’d better 
show you a letter I’ve had,” he said. “ Mind 
you, I take no responsibility for what you do.” 

“ Nobody wants you to,” said Eugene, with 
a smile. “We all understand that’s your po- 
sition.” 


MR. MOREWOOD IS INDIGNANT. 169 

Ayre flung the letter over to him and he 
read it. 

“Oh, by Jove, this is the devil!” he ex- 
claimed, jumping off the writing table, where 
he had seated himself. 

“ So Morewood seems to think.” 

“ Poor old fellow ! I say, what shall I do ? 
Poor old Stafford ! Fancy his cutting up like 
this.” . 

“ It’s kind of you to pity him.” 

“ What do you mean ? I say, Ayre, you 
don’t think there is anything in it ? ” 

“ Anything in it ? ” 

“You don’t think there’s any chance that 
Claudia likes him ? ” 

“Haven’t an idea one way or the other,” 
said Ayre rather disingenuously. 

Eugene looked very perturbed. 

“ You see,” continued Ayre, “ it’s pretty 
cool of you to assume the girl is in love with 
you when she knew you were engaged to 
somebody else up to a month ago.” 

“ Oh, damn it, yes ! ” groaned Eugene ; 
“ but she knew old Stafford had sworn not to 
marry anybody.” 

“ And she knew — of course she knew — you 
both wanted to marry her. I wonder what she 
thought of both of you ! ” 


170 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ She never had any idea of the sort about 
him. About me she may have had an ink- 
ling.” 

“Just an inkljpg, perhaps,” assented Sir 
Roderick. 

“ The worst of it is, you know, if she does 
like me, I shall feel a brute, cutting in now. 
Old Stafford knew I was engaged too, you 
know.” 

“ It all serves you right,” observed Ayre 
comfortingly. “ If you must get engaged at 
all, why the deuce couldn’t you pick the right 
girl ? ” 

“ Fact is, I don’t show up over well.” 

“You don’t; that is a fact.” 

“ Ayre, I think I ought to let him have his 
shot first.” 

“ Bosh ! why, as like as not she’d take him ! 
If it struck her that he was chucking away his 
immortal soul and all that for her sake,' as like 
as not she’d take him. Depend upon it, Eugene, 
once she caught the idea of romantic sin, she’d 
be gone — no girl could stand up against it.” 

“ It is rather the sort of thing to catch 
Claudia’s fancy.” 

“You cut in, my boy,” continued Ayre. 
“ Friendship’s all very well 

“Yes, ‘save in the office and affairs of 


MR. MORE WOOD IS INDIGNANT. 


171 


love !’” quoted Eugene, with a smile of scorn 
at himself. 

“Well, you’d better make up your mind, 
and don’t mount stilts.” 

“ I’ll go down and look round. But I can’t 
ask her without telling her or letting him tell 
her.” 


“ Pooh ! she knows.” 

“ She doesn’t, I tell you.” 

“Then she ought to. You’re a nice fel- 
low ! I slave and eavesdrop for you, and now 
you won’t do the rest yourself. What the 
deuce do you all see in that parson ? If I 
were your age, and thought Claudia Territon 
would have me, it would take a lot of parsons 
to put me on one side.” 

“Poor old Charley!” said Eugene again. 
“ Ayre, he shall have his shot.” 

“ Meanwhile, the girl’s wondering if you 
mean to throw her over. She’s expected to 
hear from you this last month. I tell you 
what : I expect Rick ’ll kick you when you do 
turn up.” 

“ Well, I shall go down and try to see her: 
when I get there I must be guided by circum- 


stances.” 

“ Very good. I expect the circumstances 
will turn out to be such that you’ll make love 


172 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


to Claudia and forget all about Stafford. If 
you don’t ” 

-What?” 

“ You’re an infernally cold-blooded con- 
scientious young ruffian, and I never took you 
for that before ! ” 

And Ayre, more perturbed about other 
people’s affairs than a man of his creed had 
any business to be, returned to the Times as 
Eugene went to pursue his errand. 


CHAPTER XI. 

WAITING LADY CLAUDIA’S PLEASURE. 

Stafford had probably painted his state of 
mind in colors somewhat more -startlino- than 
the reality warranted. When a man is going 
to act against his conscience, there is a sort of 
comfort in making out that the crime has 
features of more striking depravity than an 
unbiased observer would detect ; the incli- 
nation in this direction is increased when it is 
a question of impressing others. Sin seems 
commonplace if we give it no pomp and cir- 
cumstance. No man was more free than 
Stafford from any conscious hypocrisy or 
posing, or from the inverted pride in immo- 
rality that is often an affectation, but also, 
more often than we are willing to allow, a real 
disease of the mind. But in his interview with 
Morewood he had yielded to the temptation of 
giving a more dramatic setting and stronger 
contrasts to his conviction and his action than 
the actual inmost movement of his mind justi- 
fied. It was true that he was determined to 
set action and conviction in sharp antagonism, 
and to follow an overpowering passion rather 

*73 


174 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


than a belief that he depicted as no less domi- 
nant. Had his fierce words to Morewood re- 
produced exactly what he felt, it may be doubted 
whether the resultant of two forces so opposite 
and so equal could have been the ultimately 
unwavering intention that now possessed him. 
In truth, the aggressive strength of his belief 
had been sapped from within. His efforts 
after doubt, described by himself as entirely un- 
successful, had not in reality been without result. 
They had not issued in any radical or wholesale 
alteration of his views. He was right in suppos- 
ing that he would still have given as full intel- 
lectual assent to all the dogmas of his creed 
as formerly ; the balance of probability was 
still in his view overwhelmingly in their 
favor. But it had come to be a balance 
of probability — not, of course, in the way in 
which a man balances one account of an ordi- 
nary transaction against another, and decides 
out of his own experience of how things happen 
— Stafford had not lost his mental discrimina- 
tion so completely — but in the sense that he had 
appealed to reason, and thus admitted the juris- 
diction of reason in matters which he had 
formerly proclaimed as outside the province 
of that sort of reasoning that governs other 
intellectual questions, In the result, he was 


WAITING LAD V CIA UDIA 'S PLEASURE. 175 

left under the influence of a persuasion, not 
under the dominion of a command ; and the 
former failed to withstand an assault that the 
latter might well have enabled him to repulse. 
He found himself able to forget what he 
believed, though not to disbelieve it ; his 
convictions could be postponed, though not 
expelled ; and in representing his mind as the 
present battle-ground of equal and opposite 
forces, he had rather expressed what a 
preacher would reveal as the inner truth of 
his struggle than what he was himself con- 
scious of as going on within him. It is likely 
enough that his previous experience had made 
him describe his own condition rather in the 
rhetoric of the pulpit than in the duller 
lauguage of a psychological narrative. He 
had certainly given Morewood one false im- 
pression, or rather, perhaps, Morewood had 
drawn one false though natural inference for 
himself. He thought of Stafford, and his letter 
passed on the same view to Eugene, as of 
a man suffering tortures that passed enduring. 
Perhaps at the moment of their interview 
such was the case : the dramatic picture 
Stafford had drawn had for the moment 
terrified afresh the man who drew it. His 
normal state of mind, however, at this time 


176 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


was not unhappy. He was wretched now and 
then by effort; he was tortured by the sense 
of sin when he remembered to be. But for 
the most part he was too completely conquered 
by his passion to do other than rejoice in it. 
Possessed wholly by it, and full of an un- 
doubting confidence that Claudia returned his 
love, or needed only to realize it fully to 
return it fully, he had silenced all opposition, 
and went forth to his wooing with an exulta- 
tion and a triumph that no transitory self- 
judgments could greatly diminish. Life lay 
before him, long and full and rich and sweet. 
Let trouble be what it would, and right be 
what it might, life and love were in his own 
hands. The picture of a man giving up all 
he thought worth having, driven in misery by 
a force he could not resist to seek a remedy 
that he despaired of gaining-r-a remedy which, 
even if gained, would bring him nothing but 
fresh pain — this picture, over which Eugene 
was mourning in honest and perplexed friend- 
ship, never took form as a true presentment 
of himself to the man it was supposed to 
embody. If Eugene had known this, he 
would probably have felt less sympathy and 
more rivalry, and would have assented to 
Ayre’s view of the situation rather than 


WAITING LAD V CLA UDIA 'S PLEASURE. 1 77 

doubtingly maintained his own. A man may 
sometimes change himself more easily than 
he can persuade his friends to recognize the 
change. 

Stafford left the Retreat the morning after 
his meeting with Morewood, feeling, he con- 
fessed to himself, as if he had taken a 
somewhat unfair advantage of its hospitality. 
The result of his sojourn there, if known to 
the Founder, might have been a trial of that 
enthusiast’s consistency to his principles, and 
Stafford was glad to be allowed to depart, 
as he had come, unquestioned. He came 
straight to London, and turned at once to 
the task of finding Claudia as soon as he 
could. The most likely quarter for informa- 
tion was, he thought, Eugene Lane or his 
mother ; and on the afternoon of his arrival 
in town — on the same day, that is, as Eugene 
had surprised Sir Roderick at breakfast — he 
knocked at the door of Eugene’s house in 
Upper Berkeley Street, and inquired if 
Eugene were at home. The man told him that 
Mr. Lane had returned only that morning, 
from America, he believed, and had left the 
house an hour ago, on his way to Territon 
Park; he added that he believed Mr. Lane 
had received a telegram from Lord Rickmans- 


r 78 FATHER STAFFORD. 

worth inviting him to go down. Mrs. Lane 
was at Millstead Manor. 

Stafford was annoyed at missing Eugene, 
but not surprised or disturbed to hear of his 
visit to Territon Park. Eugene did not strike 
him as a possible rival. It may be doubted 
whether in his present frame of mind he would 
have looked on any man’s rivalry as dangerous, 
but of course he was entirely ignorant of the 
new development of affairs, and supposed 
Eugene to be still the affianced husband of 
Miss Bernard. The only way the news affected 
him was by dispelling the slight hope he had 
entertained of finding that Claudia had already 
returned to London. 

He went back to his hotel, wrote a single 
line to Eugene, asking him to tell him Claudia’s 
address, if he knew it, and then went for a 
walk in the Park to pass the restless hours 
away. It was a dull evening, and the earliest 
of the fogs had settled on the devoted city. 
A small drizzle of rain and the thickening 
blackness had cleared the place of saunterers, 
and Stafford, who prolonged his walk, ap- 
parently unconscious of his surroundings, had 
the dreary path by the Serpentine nearly to 
himself. As the fog grew denser and night 
fell, the spot became a desert, and its chill 


waiting lad y cla udia ’s plea sure. 179 

gloom began to be burdensome even to his 
prepossessed mind. He stopped and gazed as 
far as the mist let him over the water, which 
lay smooth and motionless, like a sheet of 
opaque glass ; the opposite bank was shrouded 
from his view, and imagination allowed him 
to think himself standing on the shore of 
some almost boundless lake. Seen under such 
conditions, the Sepentine put off the cheerful 
vulgarity of its everyday aspect, and exer- 
cised over the spirit of the watcher the same 
fascination as a mountain tarn or some deep, 
quick-flowing stream. “ Come hither and be 
at rest,” it seemed to whisper, and Stafford, 
responsive to the subtle invitation, for a 
moment felt as if to die in the thought of 
his mistress would be as sweet as to live in 
her presence, and, it might be, less perilous. 
At least he could be quiet there. His mind 
traveled back to a by-gone incident of his 
parochial life, when he had found a wretched 
shop-boy crouching by the water’s edge, and 
trying to screw his courage up for the final 
plunge. It was a sordid little tragedy — an 
honest lad was caught in the toils of some 
slatternly Jezebel ; she had made him steal 
for her, had spent his spoil, and then deserted 
him for his “ pal” — his own familiar friend. 


180 FATHER STAFFORD. 

Adrift on the world, beggared in character 
and fortune, and sore to the heart, he had 
wandered to the edge of the water, and 
listened to its low-voiced promises of peace. 
Stafford had stretched forth his hand to pluck 
him from his doom and set him on his feet ; 
he prevailed on the lad to go home in his 
company, and the course of a few days proved 
once again that despair may be no more en- 
during than delight. The incident had almost 
faded from his memory, but it revived now as 
he stood and looked on the water, and he 
recognized with a start the depths to which he 
Wtis in danger of falling. The invitation of 
the water could not draw him to it till he 
knew Claudia’s will. But if she failed him, 
was not that the only thing left? His desire 
had swallowed up his life, and seemed to point 
to death as the only alternative to its own 
satisfaction. He contemplated this conclusion, 
not with the personal interest of a man who 
thought he might be called to act upon it, — 
Claudia would rescue him from that, — but with 
a theoretical certainty that if by any chance 
the staff on which he leant should break, he 
would be in no other mind than that from 
which he had rescued his miserable shop-boy. 
Death for love’s sake was held up in poetry 


WAITING LAD Y CLA UDIA 'S PLEASURE. 181 . 

and romance as a thine in some sort noble and 
honorable ; as a man might die because he 
could not save his country, so might he because 
he could not please his lady-love. In old days, 
Stafford, rigidly repressing his aesthetic delight 
in such literature, had condemned its teaching 
with half-angry contempt, and enough of his 
former estimate of things remained to him to 
prevent him regarding such a state of mind as 
it pictured as a romantic elevation rather than 
a hopeless degradation of a man’s being. But 
although he still condemned, now he under- 
stood, if not the defense of such an attitude, at 
least the existence of it. He miodit still think 

o 

it a folly ; it no longer appeared a figment. 
A sin it was, no doubt, and a degradation, but 
not an enormity or an absurdity ; and when he 
tried again to fancy his life without Claudia, 
he struggled in vain against the growing con- 
viction that the pictures he had condemned as 
caricatures of humanity had truth in them, and 
that it might be his part to prove it. 

With a shiver he turned away. Such 
imaginings were not good for a man, nor the 
place that bred them. He took the shortest 
cut that led out of the Park and back to the 
streets, where he found lights and people, and 
his thoughts, sensitive to the atmosphere round 


i 82 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


him, took a brighter hue. Why should he 
trouble himself with what he would do if he 
were deceived in Claudia? He knew her too 
well to doubt her. He had pushed aside all 
obstacles to seek her, and she would fly to 
meet him ; and he smiled at himself for con- 
juring up fantasies of impossible misfortune, 
only to enjoy the solace of laying them again 
with the sweet confidence of love. He passed 
the evening in the contemplation of his happi- 
ness, awaiting Eugene’s reply to his note 
with impatience, but without disquiet. 

This same letter was, however, the cause of 
very serious disquiet to the recipient, more 
especially as it came upon the top of another 
troublesome occurrence. Rickmansworth had 
welcomed Eugene to Territon Park with his 
usual good nature and his usual absence of 
effusion. In fact, he telegraphed that Eugene 
could come if he liked, but he, Rickmansworth, 
thought he’d find it beastly slow. Eugene 
went, but found, to his dismay, that Claudia 
was not there. Some mystery hung over her 
non-appearance ; but he learned from Bob that 
her departure had been quite impromptu, — 
decided upon, in fact, after his te’legram 
was received, — and that she was staying 
some five miles off, at the Dower House, witli 


WAITING LADY CLAUDIA'S PLEASURE. 183 

her- aunt, Lady Julia, who occupied that resi- 
dence. 

Eugene was much annoyed and rather 
uneasy. 

“ It looks as if she didn’t want to see 
me,” he said to Bob. 

“It does, almost,” replied Bob cheerfully. 
“ Perhaps she don’t.” 

“ Well, I’ll go over and call to-morrow.” 

“You can if you like. / should let her 
alone.” 

Very likely Bob’s words were the words of 
wisdom, but when did a lover — even a toler- 
ably cool-headed lover like Eugene — ever lis- 
ten to the words of wisdom ? He went to bed 
in a bad temper. Then in the morning came 
Stafford’s letter, and of course. Eugene had no 
kind of doubt as to the meaning of it. Now, it 
had been all very well to be magnanimous and 
propose to give his friend a chance when he 
thought the pear was only waiting to drop 
into his hand ; magnanimity appeared at once 
safe and desirable, and there was no strong mo- 
tive to counteract Eugene’s love for Stafford. 
Matters were rather different when it appeared 
that the pear was not waiting to drop — when, 
on the contrary, the pear had pointedly re- 
moved itself from the hand of the plucker, and 


184 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


seemed, if one may vary the metaphor, to have 
turned into a prickly pear. Eugene still be- 
lieved that Claudia loved him ; but he saw 
that she was stung by his apparent neglect, 
and perhaps still more by the idea that in his 
view he had only to ask at any time in order 
to have. When ladies gather that impres- 
sion, they think it due to their self-respect to 
make themselves very unpleasant, and Eugene 
did not feel sure how far this feeling might 
not carry Claudia’s quick, fiery nature, more 
especially if she were offered a chance of 
punishing Eugene by accepting a suitor who 
was in many ways an object of her admira- 
tion and regard, and came to her with an 
indubitable halo of romance about him. 
Eugene felt that his consideration for Stafford 
might, perhaps, turn out to be more than a 
graceful tribute to friendship ; it might mean 
a real sacrifice, a sacrifice of immense gravity ; 
and he did what most people would do — he 
reconsidered the situation. 

The matter was not, to his* thinking, com- 
plicated by anything approaching to an implied 
pledge on his part. Of course Stafford had not 
looked upon him as a possible rival ; his en- 
gagement to Kate Bernard had seemed to put 
him hors de combat. But he had been equally 


WAITING LADY CLA UDIA ’S PLEAS DTE. i 85 

entitled to regard Stafford as out of the run- 
ning ; for surely Stafford’s vow was as binding 
^ as his promise. They stood on an equality : 
neither could reproach the other — that is to say, 
each had matter of reproach against the other, 
but his mouth was closed. There was then only 
friendship— only the old bond* that nothing 
was to come between them. Did this bond 
carry with it the obligation of standing on one 
side in such a case as this ? Moreover, time 
was precious. If he failed to seek out Claudia 
that very day, she, knowing he was at Ter- 
riton Park, would be justly aggrieved by a 
new proof of indifference or disrespect. And 
yet, if he were to wait for Stafford, that day 
must go by without his visit. Eugene had 
hitherto lived pleasantly by means of never 
asking too much of himself, and in conse- 
quence being always tolerably equal to his 
own demands upon himself. Quixotism was 
not to be expected of him. A nice observance 
of honor was as much as he would be likely 
to attain to ; and friendship would be satisfied 
if he gave the doubtful points against himself. 

He sat down after breakfast, and wrote a 
long letter to Stafford. 

After touching very lightly on Stafford’s 
position, and disclaiming not only any right to 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


1 86 

judge, but also any inclination to blame, he 
went on to tell in some detail the change that 
had occurred in his own situation, avowed his 
intention of gaining Claudia’s hand if he could, 
clearly implied his knowledge that Stafford’s 
heart was set on the same object, and ended 
with a warm declaration that the rivalry be- 
tween them did not and should not alter his 
love, and that, if unsucessful, he could desire 
to be beaten by no other man than Stafford. 
He added more words of friendship, told 
Stafford tLat he should try his luck as soon as 
might be, and that he had Rickmansworth’s 
authority to tell him that, if he saw proper to 
come down for the same purpose, his coming 
would not be regarded as an intrusion by the 
master of the house. 

Then he went and obtained the authority 
he had pledged, and sent his servant up to 
London with the letter, with instructions to 
deliver it instantly into Stafford’s own hand. 
His distrust in the integrity of the postmaster’s 
daughter in such a matter prevented his send- 
ing any further message by the wires than one 
requesting Stafford to be at home to receive 
his letter between twelve and one, when his 
messenger might be expected to arrive. 

With a conscience clear enough for all 


WAITING LAD Y CL A UDIA 'S PLEA SURE. I 87 

practical purposes, he then mounted his horse, 
rode over to the Dower House, and sent in his 
card to Lady Julia Territon. Lady Julia was 
probably well posted up ; at any rate, she re- 
ceived him with kindness and without surprise, 
and, after the proper amount of conversation, 
told him she believed he would find Claudia 
in the morning-room. Would he stay to 
lunch ? and would he excuse her if she re- 
turned to her occupations? Eugene prevari- 
cated about the lunch, for the invitation was 
obviously, though tacitly, a contingent one, 
and conceded the lady’s excuses with as re- 
spectable a show of sincerity as was to be 
expected. Then he turned his steps to the 
morning-room, declining announcement, and 
knocked at the door. 

“ Oh, come in,” said Claudia, in a tone 
that clearly implied, “ if you won’t let me 
alone and stay outside.” 

“ Perhaps she doesn’t know who it is,” 
thought Eugene, trying to comfort himself as 
he opened the door. 


CHAPTER XII. 

LADY CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 

Of course she knew who it was, and her 
uninviting tone was a result of her knowledge. 
We are yet awaiting a systematic treatise on 
the psychology of women ; perhaps they will 
some day be trained highly enough to analyze 
themselves. Until this happens, we must wait ; 
for no man unites the experience and the tem- 
perament necessary. This could be proved, if 
proof were required ; but, happily, proof of 
assertions is not always required, and proof of 
this one would lead us into a long digression, 
bristling with disputable matter, and requiring 
perhaps hardly less rare qualities than the task 
of writing the treatise itself. The modest 
scribe is reduced to telling how Claudia be- 
haved, without pretending to tell why she be- 
haved so, far less attempting to group her under 
a general law. He is comforted in thus taking 
a lower place by the thought that after all no- 
body likes being grouped under general laws — 
it is more interesting to be peculiar — and that 
Claudia would have regarded such an attempt 
with keen indignation ; and by the further 


CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 189 

thought that if you once start on general laws, 
there’s no telling where you will stop. The 
moment you get yours nicely formulated, your 
neighbor comes along with a wider one, and 
reduces it to a subordinate proposition, o'reven 
to the humiliating status of a mere example. 
Now even philosophers lose their temper when 
this occurs, while ordinary mortals resort to 
abuse. These dangers and temptations may 
be conscientiously, and shall be scrupulously, 
avoided. 

Eugene advanced into the room with all 
the assurance he could muster ; he could muster 
a good deal, but he felt he needed it every 
bit, for Claudia’s aspect was not conciliatory. 
She greeted him with civility, and in reply to 
his remark that being in the neighborhood he 
thought he might as well call, expressed her 
gratification and hinted her surprise at his re- 
membering to do so. She then sat down, and 
for ten minutes by the clock talked fluently 
and resolutely about an extraordinary variety 
of totally uninteresting things. Eugene used 
this breathing-space to recover himself. He 
said nothing, or next to nothing, but waited 
patiently for Claudia to run down. She 
struggled desperately against exhaustion ; but 
at last she could not avoid a pause, Eugenes 


190 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


generalship had foreseen that this opening was 
inevitable. Like Fabius he waited, and like 
Fabius he struck. 

“ I have been so completely out of the 
world — out of my own world — for the last 
month that I know nothing. Didn’t even have 
my letters sent on.” 

“ Fancy!” said Lady Claudia. 

“ I wish I had now.” 

Claudia was meant to say “Why?” She 
didn’t, so he had to make the connection for 
himself. 

“ I found one letter waiting for me that 
was most important.” 

“Yes?” said Claudia, with polite but ob- 
viously fatigued interest. 

“ It was from Miss Bernard.” 

“ Fancy not having her letters sent on ! ” 

“You know what was in that letter, Lady 
Claudia ?” 

“ Oh, yes ; Rickmansworth told me. I don’t 
know if he ought to have. I am so very sorry, 
Mr. Lane.” 

“ From not getting the letter, I didn’t know 
for a month that I was free. I needn’t shrink 
from calling it freedom.” 

“ As you were in America, it couldn’t make 
much difference whether you knew or not.” 


CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 191 

“ I want you to know that I didn’t know.” 

“ Really you are very kind.” 

“ I was afraid you would think ” 

“ Pray, what ?” asked Claudia, in suspiciously 
calm tones. 

Eugene was conscious he was not putting 
it in the happiest possible way ; however, there 
was nothing for it but to go on now. 

‘‘Why, that — why. Claudia, that I shouldn’t 
rush to you the moment I was free.” 

Claudia was sitting on a sofa, and as he 
said this Eugene came up and leant his hands 
on the back of it. He thought he had done it 
rather well at last. To his astonishment, she 
leapt up. 

“ This is too much ! ” she cried. 

“Why, what?” exclaimed poor Eugene. 

“To come and tell me to my face that 
you’re afraid I’ve been crying for you for a 
month past ! ” 

“ Of course I don’t mean ” 

“ Do I look very ill and worn ?” demanded 
Claudia, with elaborate sarcasm. “ Have I 
faded away ? Make your mind easy, Mr. 
Lane. You will not have another girl’s death 
at your door.” 

Eugene so far forgot himself as to stare at 
the ceiling and exclaim, “ Good God ! ” 


192 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


This appeared to add new fuel to the 
flame. 

“You come and tell a girl — all but in words 
tell her — she was dying for love of you when 
you were engaged to another girl ; dying to 
hear from you ; dying to have you propose to 
her ! And when she’s mildly indignant you 
use some profane expression, just as if you 
had stated the most ordinary facts in the 
world ! I am infinitely obliged for your com- 
passion, Mr. Lane.” 

“ I meant nothing of the sort. I only meant 
that considering what had passed between 


“ Passed between us ? ” 

“Well, yes at Millstead, you know.” 

“ Are you going to tell me I said anything 
then, when I knew you were engaged to Kate ? 
I suppose you will stop short of that ? ” 

Eugene wisely abandoned this line of argu- 
ment. After all, most of the talking had been 
on his side. 

“Why will you quarrel, Claudia? I came 
here in as humble a frame of mind as ever man 
came in.” 

“Your humility, Mr. Lane, is a peculiar 
quality.” 

“ Won’t you listen to me ? ” 


CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 193 

“ Have I refused to listen ? But no, I don’t 
want to listen now. You have made me too 
angry.” 

“ Oh, but do listen just a little ” 

Claudia suddenly changed her tone — indeed, 
her whole demeanor. 

“ Not to-day,” she said beseechingly; “ really, 
not to-day. I won’t tell you why ; but not to- 
day.” 

“ No time like the present,” suggested 
Eugene. 

“ Do you know there is something you don’t 
allow for in women ?” 

“ So it seems. What is that ? ” 

“Just a little pride. No, I will not listen 
to you !” she added, with an imperious little 
stamp of her foot, and a relapse into hostility. 

“ May I come again ?” 

“ I don’t know.” 

Eugene was not a patient man. He allowed 
himself a shrug of the shoulders. 

“Are you about to congratulate me on 
having ‘ bagged ’ another ? ” 

“You’re entirely hopeless to-day, and en- 
tirely charming!” he said. “ If any girl but 
you had treated me like this, I’d never come 
near her again.” 

Claudia looked daggers. 


i 9 4 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Pray don’t make me an exception to your 
usual rule.” 

“ As it is, I shall go away now and come 
back presently. You may then at least listen 
to me. That’s all I’ve asked you to do so far.” 

“ I am bound to do that. I will some day. 
But do go now.” 

“ I will directly ; but I want to speak to 
you about something else.” 

“ Anything else in the world ! And on any 
other subject I will be — charming — to you. 
Sit down. What is it ? ” 

“ It’s about Stafford.” 

“ Your friend Father Stafford ? What about 
him ? ” 

“ He’s coming down here.” 

“Oh, how nice ! It will be a pleasant ref — 
resource.” 

Eugene smiled. 

“ Don’t mind saying what you mean — or 
even what you don’t mean ; that generally 
gives people greater pleasure.” 

“You’re making me angry again.” 

“ But what do you think he’s coming for?” 

“ To see you, I suppose.” 

“ On the contrary. To see you.” 

“ Pray don’t be absurd.” 

“ It’s gospel truth, and very serious. He 


CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 19S 

is in love with you. No — wait, please. You 
must forgive my speaking of it. But you 
ought to know.” 

“ Father Stafford ? ” 

“ No other.” 

“ But he — he’s not going to marry anybody. 
He’s taken a vow.” 

“Yes. He’s going to break it — if you’ll 
help him.” 

“ You wouldn’t make fun of this. Is it 
true ?” 

“Yes, it’s desperately true. Now, I’m not 
going to tell you any more, or say anything 
more about it. He’ll come and plead his own 
cause. If you’d treated me differently, I 
might have stopped him. As it is, he must 
come now.” 

“ Why do you assume I don’t want him to 
come ? ” 

“ I assume nothing. I don’t know whether 
you’ll make him happy or treat him as you’ve 
treated me.” 

“ I shan’t treat him as I’ve treated yon. 
Eugene ; is he — is he very unhappy about it ? ” 

“Yes, poor devil!” said Eugene bitterly. 
“ He’s ready to give up this world and the next 
for you.” 

“ You think that strange ? ” 


196 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


Eugene shook his head with a smile. 

A man had given all other bliss 
And all his worldly worth, 

he quoted. “ Stafford would give more than 
that. Good-morning, Lady Claudia.” 

“ Good-by,” she said. “ When is he 
coming ? ” 

“ To-day, I expect.” 

“ Thank you.” 

“ Claudia, if you take him, you’ll let me 
know ? ” 

“ Yes, yes.” 

She seemed so absent and troubled that he 
left her without more, and made his way to his 
horse and down the drive, without giving a 
thought to the contingent lunch. 

“ She’ll marry me if she doesn’t marry him,” 
he thought. “ But, I say, 1 did make rather 
an ass of myself ! ” And he laughed gently and 
ruefully over Claudia’s wrath and his own 
method of wooing. He would have laughed 
much the same gentle and rueful laugh over his 
own hanging, had such an unreasonable acci- 
dent befallen him. 

So far as the main subject of the interview 
was concerned, Claudia was well pleased with 
herself. Her indignation had responded very 


CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 197 

satisfactorily to her call upon it and had 
enabled her to work off on Eugene her resent- 
ment, not only for his own sins, but also for 
annoyances for which he could not fairly be 
held responsible. A patient lover must be a 
most valuable safety-valve. And although 
Eugene was not the most patient of his kind, 
Claudia did not think that she had put more 
upon him than he was able to bear — certainly 
not more than he deserved to bear. She would 
have dearly loved the luxury of refusing him, 
and although she had not been able to make up 
her mind to this extreme measure, she had, at 
least, succeeded in infusing a spice of difficulty 
into his wooing. She was so content with the 
aspect of affairs in this direction that it did not 
long detain her thoughts, and she found herself 
pondering more on the disclosure Eugene had 
made of Stafford’s feelings than on his revela- 
tion of his own. It is difficult, without the aid 
of subtle distinctions, to say exactly what 
degree of surprise she felt at the news. She 
must, no doubt, have seen that Stafford was 
greatly attracted to her, and probably she 
would have felt that the description of his state 
of mind as that of a man in love only erred to 
the extent that a general description must err 
when applied to a particular case. But she was 


198 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


both surprised and disturbed at hearing that 
Stafford intended to act upon his feelings, and 
the very fact of her power having overcome 
him did him evil service in her thoughts. The 
secret of his charm for her lay exactly in the 
attitude of renunciation that he was now 
abandoning. She had been half inclined to 
fall in love with him just because there was no 
question of his falling in love with her. Her 
feelings toward Eugene, which lay deeper 
than she confessed, had prevented her actually 
losing her heart, or doing more than contem- 
plate the picture of her romantic passion, 
banned by all manner of awful sanctions, as a 
not uninteresting possibility. By abandoning 
his position Stafford abandoned one great 
source of strength. On the other hand, he no 
doubt gained something. Claudia was not 
insensible to that aspect of the case which 
Ayre had apprehended would influence her so 
powerfully. She did perceive the halo of 
romance ; and the idea of an Ajax defying 
heavenly lightning for her sake had its at- 
tractiveness. But Ayre reasoning, as a man 
is prone and perhaps obliged to do, from him- 
self to another, had omitted to take account of 
a factor in Claudia’s mind about the existence 
of which, even if it had been suggested to him, 

00 7 


CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 199 

he would have been profoundly skeptical. Ayre 
had never been able, or at least never given 
himself the trouble, to understand how real a 
thing Stafford’s vow had been to him, and 
what a struggle was necessary before he could 
disregard it. He would have been still more 
at a loss to appreciate the force which the same 
vow exercised over Claudia. Stafford himself 
had strengthened this feeling in her. Although 
the subject pf celibacy, and celibacy by oath, 
had not been discussed openly between them, 
yet in their numerous conversation Stafford 
had not failed to respond to her sympathetic 
invitations so far as to give himself full liberty 
in descanting on the excellences of the life 
he had chosen for himself. Every word he had 
spoken in its praise now rose to condemn its 
betrayal. And Claudia, who had been brought 
up in entire removal from the spirit which 
made Ayre and Eugene treat Stafford’s vow as 
one_of the picturesque indiscretions of devotion, 
was unable to look upon the breaking of it in 
any other light than that of a falsehood and an 
act of treachery. Religion was to her a series 
of definite commands, and although her 
temperament was not such as enabled or led 
her to penetrate beneath the commands to the 
reason of them, or emboldened her to rely on 


200 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


the latter rather than the former, she had never 
wavered in the view that at least these com- 
mands may and should be observed, and that, 
above all, by a man whose profession it was to 
inculcate them. This much of genuine dis- 
approval of Stafford’s conduct she undoubtedly 
felt ; and there it would be pleasant to leave 
the matter. But in the commanding interest 
of truth it must be added that this genuine 
disapproval was, unconsciously perhaps to 
herself, strengthened by more mundane feel- 
ings, which would, if analyzed, have been 
resolved into a sense of resentment against 
Stafford. He had come to her, as it were, 
under false pretenses. Relying on his peculiar 
position, she had allowed herself, without 
scruple, a freedom and expansion in her rela- 
tions toward him that she would have con- 
demned, though perhaps not abstained from, 
had he stood exactly where other men stood ; 
and she felt that, if charged with encouraging 
him and fostering a delusion in his mind, her 
defense, though in reality a good one, was not 
one which the world would accept as justifying 
her. She could not openly plead that she had 
flirted with him, because she had never thought 

o 

he would flirt with her ; or allowed him to 
believe she entertained a deeper regard for him 


CLAUDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND* 201 

than she did because he could be supposed to 
feel none for her. Yet that was the truth ; 
and perhaps it was a good defense. And 
Claudia was resentful because she could not 
defend herself by using it, and her resentment 
settled upon the ultimate cause of her per- 
plexities. 

When Eugene got back to Territon Park he 
was received by the brothers with unaffected 
interest. They were passing the morning in 
an exhaustive medical inspection of the dogs, 
but they left even this engrossing occupation, 
and sauntered out to meet him. 

“Well, what luck?” asked Rickmans- 
worth. 

“ The debate is adjourned,” answered 
Eugene. 

“ Did Clau make herself agreeable ?” 

“ Well, no ; in fact, she made herself as 
disagreeable as she knew how.” 

“ Raised Cain, did she ? ” inquired Bob 
sympathetically. 

“ Something of the sort ; but I think it’s all 
right.” 

“You play up, old man,” said Bob. 

“Well, but what the devil are we to do 
with this parson ? ” Lord Rickmansworth de- 
manded. “He’ll be here after lunch, you 


202 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


know. You are an ass, Eugene, to bring him 
clown ! ” 

“ I’m not quite sure, you know, that he 
won’t persuade her.” 

“ Why didn’t you settle it this morning?” 

“ My dear fellow, she was impossible this 
morning.” 

“ Oh, bosh ! ” said his lordship. “ Now I’ll 
tell you what you ought to have done ” 

“ Oh, shut up, Rick ! What do you know 
about it? Stafford must try his luck, if he 
likes. Don’t you fellows bother about him. 
I’ll see him when he comes down.” 

“ Would it be infernally uncivil if we 
happened to be out in the tandem ? ” sug- 
gested Rickmansworth. 

“ I expect he’d be rather glad.” 

“ Then we will be out in the tandem. If 
you kill him, or the other way, just do it out- 
side, will you, so as not to make a mess ? Now 
we’ll lunch, and then, Bob, my boy, we’ll 
evaporate.” 

It was about three o’clock when Stafford 
arrived. He had managed to catch the 1.30 
from London, and must have started the 
moment he had read his letter. He was shown 
into the billiard-room, where Eugene was rest- 
lessly smoking a cigar, 


CLA UDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 203 

He came swiftly up, and held out his hand, 
saying : 

“ This is like you, my dear old fellow. 
Not another man in England would have 
done it.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” replied Eugene. “ I ought 
to have done more.” 

“ More ? How ? ” 

“ I ought to have waited till you came 
before I went to see her.” 

“ No, no ; that would have been too 
much.” 

He was quite calm and cool ; apparently 
there was nothing on his mind, and he spoke 
of Eugene’s visit as if it concerned him little. 

“ I daresay you’re surprised at all this,” he 
continued, “ but I can’t talk about that now. 
It would upset me again. Beside, there’s no 
time.” 

“ Why no time ? ” 

“ I must go straight over and see her.” 

“ My dear Charley, are you set on going ?” 

“ Of course. I came for that purpose. 
You know how sorry I am we are rivals ; but 
I agree with what you said — we needn’t be 
enemies.” 

“ It wasn’t that I meant. But you don’t 
ask how I fared.” 


204 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“Well, I was. expecting you would tell me, 
if there was anything to tell.” 

“ I went, you know, to ask her to be my 
wife.” 

Stafford nodded. 

“ Well, did you ? ” 

“ No, not exactly.” 

“ I thought not.” 

“ I tried to — I mean I wasn’t kept back by 
loyalty to you — you mustn’t think that. But 
she wouldn’t let me.” 

“ I thought she wouldn’t.” 

Eugene began to understand his state of 
mind. In another man such confidence would 
have made him angry ; but he had only pity 
for Stafford. 

“ I must try and make him understand,” he 
thought. 

“ Charley,” he began, “ I don’t think you 
quite follow, and it’s not v&ry easy to explain. 
She didn’t refuse me.” 

“ Well, no, if you didn’t ask,” said Stafford, 
with a slight smile. 

“ And she didn’t stop me in — in that way. 
Look here, old fellow ; it’s no use beating about 
the bush. I believe she means to have me.” 

Stafford said nothing. 

“ But I don’t say that to put you off going, 


CLA UDIA IS VEXED WITH MANKIND. 205 


because I’m not sure. But I believe she does. 
And you ought to know what I t'hink. I tell 
you all I know.” 

“ Do you tell me not to go ? ” 

“ I can’t do that. I only tell you what I 
believe.” 

“ She said nothing of the sort ?” 

“ No — nothing explicit.” 

“ Merely declined to listen ? ” 

“ Yes — but in a way.” 

“ My dear Eugene, aren’t you deceiving 
yourself ? ” 

“ I think not. I think, you know, you’re 
deceiving yourself.” 

They looked at one another, and suddenly 
both men smiled. 

“ I want to spare you,” said Eugene ; “but 
it sounds a little absurd.” 

“ The sooner I go the better,” said Stafford. 
“ I must tell you, old fellow, I go in confident 
hope. If I am wrong ” 

“ Yes ? ” 

“ Everything is over ! Would you feel 
that?” 

Eugene was always honest with Stafford. 
He searched his heart. 

“ I should be cut up,” he said. “ But no — • 
not that.” / 


20 6 


FA THER STAFFORD. 


Stafford smiled sadly. 

“ How I wish I could do things by halves ! ” 
he exclaimed. 

“ You will come back ? ” 

“ I’ll leave a line for you as I go by. What- 
ever happens, you have treated me well.” 

“ Good-by, old man. I can’t say good luck. 
When shall I see you?” 

“ That depends,” said Stafford. 

Eugene showed him the road to the Dower 
House, and he set out at a brisk walk. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

a lover’s fate and a friend’s counsel. 

It was about half-past three when Stafford 
left Territon Park ; about the same hour 
Claudia sallied forth from the Dower House 
to take her constitutional. When two people 
start to walk at the same time from opposite 
ends of the same road, barring accidents, they 
meet somewhere about the middle. In accord- 
ance with this law, when Claudia was about 
two miles from home, walking along the path 
through the dense woods of Territon Park, she 
saw Stafford coming toward her. There 
were no means of escape, and with a sigh of 
resignation she sat down on a rustic seat and 
awaited his approach. He saw her as soon as 
she saw him, and came up to her without any 
embarrassment. 

“ I am lucky,” he said, “ I was going over 
to see you.” 

Claudia had given some thought to this inter- 
view and had determined on her best course. 

“ Mr. Lane told me you were coming.” 

“ Dear old Eugene ! ” 

“ But I hoped you would not.” 

207 


FA T1IER STAFFORD. 


Lo8 

“ Don’t let us begin at the end. I haven’t 
seen you since I left Millstead. Were you 
surprised at my going?” 

“ I was rather surprised at the way you 
went.” 

“ I thought you would understand it. Now, 
honestly, didn’t you ?” 

“ Perhaps I did.” 

“I thought so. You had seen what I only 
saw that very night. You understood ” 

“ Please, Father Stafford ” 

'‘Say Mr. Stafford.” 

“ No. I know you as Father Stafford, and 
I like that best.” 

“As you will — for the present. You knew 
how I stood. You saw I loved you — no, I am 
going on — and yet felt myself bound not to 
tell you.” 

“I saw nothing of the kind. It never 
entered my head.” 

“ Claudia, is it possible ? Did you never 
think of it ?” 

“As nothing more than a possibility — and 
a very unhappy possibility.” 

“Why unhappy?” he asked, and his voice 
was very tender. 

“To begin with : you could never love any 
one.” 


LO VER 'S FA TE AND FRIEND’S COUNSEL. 209 

“ I have swept all that on one side. That 
is over.” 

” How can it be over? You had sworn.” 

“ Yes ; but it is over.” 

“ Dare you break your vow ?” 

“If I dare, who else dare question rrle ? 
Have I not counted the cost?” 

“ Nothing can make it right.” 

“Why talk of that? It is my sin and my 
concern.” 

“You destroy all my esteem for you.” 

“ I ask for love, not for esteem. Esteem 
between you and me ! I love you more than 
all the world.” 

“Ah ! don’t say that !” 

“Yes, more than my soul. And you talk 
of esteem ! Ah! you don’t know what a man’s 
love is.” 

“ I never thought of you as making love.” 

“ I think now of nothing else. Why should 
I trouble you with my struggles ? Now I am 
free to love — and you, Claudia, are free to 
return my love.” 

“ Did you think I was in love with you ? ” 

“Yes,” said Stafford. “But you knew my 
promise, and did not let yourself see your own 
feelings. Ah, Claudia ! if it is only the 
promise ! ” 


210 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“It isn’t only the promise. You have 
no right to speak like that. I should never 
have done as I did if I’d even thought of you 
like that.” 

“ What do you mean by saying it’s not only 
the promise ? ” 

“ Why, that I don’t love you — I never did 
— oh, what a wretched thing ! ” And she rose 
and paced about, clasping her hands. 

Stafford was very pale now, but very quiet. 

“You never loved me?” 

“No.” 

“ But you will. You must, when you know 
my love ” 

“ No.” 

“ Yes, but you will. Let me tell you what 
you are ” 

“ No, I never can.” 

“ Is it true ? Why ? ” 

“ Because — oh ! don’t you see?” 

“ No. Wasn’t it because you loved me that 
you wouldn’t let Eugene speak?” 

“ No, no, no ! ” 

“ Claudia,” he cried, clasping her wrist, 
“were you playing with him?” 

No answer seemed possible but the truth. 

“Yes,” she said, bowing her head. 

“ And playing with me ? ” 


LO VER'S FA TE AND FRIEND 'S COUNSEL. 2 1 1 

“ No, that’s unjust. I never did. I 
thought ” 

“You thought I was beyond hurt?” 

“ I suppose so. You set up to be.” 

“ Yes, I set up to be,” he said bitterly. 
“ And the truth — in God’s name let us have 
truth — is that you love him ? ” 

“ Have you no pity ? Why do you press 
me ? ” 

“ I will not press you ; God forbid I should 
trouble you ! But is this the end ?” 

“Yes.” 

“Is it final — no hope? Think what it 
means to me.” 

“ If I do care for Mr. Lane, is this friendly 
to him ? ” 

“ I am beyond friendship, as I am beyond 
conscience. Claudia, turn to me. No man 
ever loved as I do.” 

“ I can’t help it,” she said ; “ I can’t help 
it ! ” 

Stafford sank down on the seat and sat there 
for a moment without speaking. Claudia was 
awed at the look on his face. 

“Don’t look like that !” she cried. “You 
look like a man lost.” 

“Yes, lost!” he echoed. “All lost — all 
lost — and for nothing!” 


212 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


Silence followed for a long time. Then he 
roused himself, and looked at her. Claudia’s 
eyes were full of tears. 

“ It’s not your fault, my sweet lady,” he 
said gently. “You are pure and bright and 
beautiful, as you ever were, and I have raved 
and frightened you. Well, I will go.” 

“ Go where ?” 

“Where? I don’t know yet.” 

“ I am so very, very sorry. But you must 
try — you must forget about it.” 

He smiled. 

“Yes, I must forget about it.” 

“ You will be yourself again — your old 
self — not weak like this, but giving others 
strength.” 

“Yes,” he said again, humoring her. 

“ Surely you can do it — you who had such 
strength. And don’t think hardly of me.” 

“ I think of you as I used to think of God,” 
he said ; and bent and kissed her hand. 

“ Oh, hush !” she cried. “ Pray don’t !” 

He kissed her hand once again, and then 
straightened himself, and said : 

“Now I am going. You must forget — 
or remember Millstead, not Territon. And 
I ” 


“Yes, and you ? ” 


LO VER } S FA TE AND FRIEND >S CO UN SEE. 2 1 3 

“ I will go, too, where I may find forgetful- 
ness. Good-by.” 

“ Good-by,” said Claudia, and gave him 
her hand again, her heart full of pity and 
almost of love. He turned on his heel, and she 
stood and watched him go. For a moment a 
sudden thought flashed through her head. 

“ Shall I call him back ? Shall I ever find 
such love as his ? ” 

She started a step forward, but stopped 
again. 

“ No, I do not love him,” she said. “ And 
I do love my careless Eugene. But God com- 
fort him ! O God, comfort him !” 

And so standing and praying for him, she 
let him go. 

And he went, with no falter in his step and 
never a look backward. This thing also had 
he set behind him. 

Claudia still stood fixed on the spot where 
he had left her. Then she sat down on the 
seat, and gave herself up to memories of their 
walks and talks at Millstead. 

“Why need he spoil it all?” she cried. 
“ Why need he give me a sad memory, when I 
had such a pleasant one ? Oh, how foolish 
they are ! What a pity it’s Eugene, and not 
him ! Eugene would never have looked like 


214 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


that. He’d have made a bitter little speech, 
and then a pretty little speech, and smoothed 
his feathers and flown away. But still it is 
Eugene ! Oh, dear, I shall never be quite 
happy again ! ” 

We may reasonably, nay confidently, hope 
that this was looking at the black side of things. 
It is pleasant to act a little to ourselves now 
and then. The little pieces are thrilling, and 
they don’t last much longer than their counter- 
parts upon the stage. With most of us the 
curtain falls very punctually, leaving time for 
a merry supper, where we forget the headache 
and the thousand natural and unnatural ills 
that passed in our sight before the green baize 
let fall its merciful veil. 

Stafford pursued his way through the 
woods. Arriving at the lodge gates, he 
stopped abruptly, remembering his promise to 
Eugene. He saw a little fellow playing about, 
and called to him. 

“Do you know Mr. Lane, my boy?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, sir,” said the child. 

“Then I’ll give you something to take to 
him.” 

He took a card out of his pocket and wrote 
on it: “You were right. I am going to 


L 0 VER ’S FATE A ND FRIEND ’ S CO UN SEE 2 1 5 

London and giving it, with a sixpence, to his 
messenger, resumed his journey to the station. 

He was stunned. It cannot be denied that 
he had been blindly hopeful, blindly confident. 
He had persuaded himself that his love for 
Claudia could be nothing but the outcome of a 
natural bond between them that must produce 
a like feeling in her. He had attributed to her 
the depth and intensity of emotion that he 
found in himself. He had seen in her not 
merely a girl of more than common quickness, 
and perhaps more than common capacity, but 
a great nature ready to respond to a great 
passion in another. She had much to give to 
the man she loved ; but Stafford asked even 
more than was hers to bestow. He had 
deceived himself, and the delusion was still 
upon him. He was conscious only of an utter, 
hopeless void. He had removed all to make 
room for Claudia, and Claudia refused to fill 
the vacant place. With all the will in the 
world she could not have filled it ; but no such 
thought as this came to console Stafford. He 
saw his joy, but was forbidden to reach out his 
hand and pluck it. His life lay in the hollow of 
her hand, to grant or withhold, and she had 
closed her grasp upon it. 

He did not rest until he reached his hotel, 


2l6 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


for he felt a lonofine to be able to sit down 
quietly and think it all over. He fancied that 
when he reached his own little room, the cloud 
that now seemed to hang over all his faculties 
would disperse, and he would see some plain 
road before him. In this he was not altogether 
disappointed, for it did become clear to him, as 
he sat in his chair, that the question he had 
to solve was whether he could now find any 
motive strong enough to keep him in life. He 
realized that Claudia’s action must be accepted 
as a final destruction of his short dream of 
happiness. He felt that he could not go back 
to his old life, much less to his old attitude of 
mind, as if nothing had happened — as if he 
were an unchanged man, save for one sorrow- 
ful memory. The transformation had been too 
thorough for that. He had almost hoped that 
he would find himself the subject of some 
sudden revulsion of feeling, some uncontroll- 
able fit of remorse, which would restore him, 
beaten and bruised, to his old refuge ; but had 
his hope been realized, his sense of relief 
would, he knew, have been mingled with a 
measure of contempt for a mind so completely 
a prey to transient emotions. His nature was 
not of that sort, and he could not by a spasm 
of penitence nullify the events of the last few 


LO VER ' S FATE AND FRIEND 'S CO UNSEL 2 1 7 

months. He must accept himself as altered by 
what he had gone through. Was there, then, 
any life left for the man he was now ? 

Undoubtedly, the easiest thing was to bid 
a quiet good-by to the life he had so mis- 
managed. He had never in old days been 
wedded to life. He had learnt always to regard 
it rather as a necessary evil than as a thing 
desirable in itself. Its momentary sweetness 
left it more bitter still. There would be a 
physical pang, inevitable to a strong man, full 
of health. But this he was ready to face ; and 
now, in leaving life he would leave behind 
nothing he regretted. The religious condem- 
nation of suicide, which in former days would 
not have decided, but prevented such a discus- 
sion in his mind, now weighed little with him. 
No doubt it would be an act of cowardice : but 
he had been guilty of such a much more 
flagrant treachery and desertion, that the 
added sin seemed a small matter. He felt that 
to boggle over it would be like condemning a 
murderer for trying to cheat the gallows. But 
still, there was the natural dislike of an ac- 
knowledgment of utter defeat ; and, added to 
this, the bitter reluctance a man of ability feels 
at the idea of his powers ceasing to be active, 
and himself ceasing to be. The instinct of life 


2l8 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


was strong in him, though his reason seemed 
to tell him there was no way in which his life 
could be used. 

“ It’s better to go ! ” he exclaimed at last, 
after long hours of conflicting meditation. 

It was getting late in the evening. Eleven 
o’clock had struck, and he thought he would go 
to bed. He was very tired and worn out, and 
decided to put off further questions till the 
next day. 

After all, there was no hurry. He knew 
the worst now ; the blow had been struck, and 
only the dull, unending pain was with him — and 
would be till the hour came when he should 
free himself from it. He resolutely turned his 
mind away from Claudia. He could not bear 
to think about her. If only he could manage 
to think about nothing for an hour, sleep would 
come. 

He rose to take his candle, but at the same 
moment a waiter opened the door. 

“ A gentleman to see you, sir.” 

“ To see me ? Who is it ?” 

“ He says his name’s Ayre, and he hopes 
you’ll see him.” 

“ I can’t see him at this time of night,” 
said Stafford, with the petulance of weariness, 
Why did the man bother him ? 


LO VER 'S FATE A ND FRIEND 5 ^ CO UNSEL. 2 1 9 

But Ayre had followed close on his 
messenger, and entered the room as Stafford 
spoke. 

“ Pray forgive me, Mr. Stafford,” he said, 
“for intruding on you so unceremoniously.” 

Stafford received him with courtesy, but 
did not succeed in concealing his questioning 
as to the motive of the visit. 

Ayre took the chair his host gave him. 

“ You think this a very strange proceeding 
on my part, I dare say ? ” 

“ How did you know I was here ?” 

“ I had a wire from Eugene Lane. I’m 
afraid I seem to be taking a liberty, and that’s 
a thing I hate doing. But I was most anxious 
to see you.” 

“ Has Eugene any news ? ” 

“ What he says is this : 1 It has happened as 
we feared. I am uneasy about him. Can you 
see him to-night ? ’ ” 

“ I suppose, then, my fortune is known to 
you ? ” 

“Yes; I wish I had seen you before you 
went. Do you mind my interfering?” 

“ No, not now. You could have done no 
good before.” 

“ I could have told you it was no use.” 

“ I shouldn’t have believed you.” 


220 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ I suppose you were bound to try it for 
yourself. Now, you think I don’t understand 
your feelings.” 

“ I suppose most people think they know' 
how a man feels when he’s crossed in love,” 
said Stafford, trying to speak lightly. 

“ That’s not the only thing with you.” 

“ No, it isn’t,” he replied, a little surprised. 

“ I feel rather responsible for it all, you 
know. I was at the bottom of Morewood’s 
showing you that picture.” 

“ It must have dawned on me sooner or 
later.” 

“ I don’t know. But, yes — I expect so. 
You’re hard hit.” 

Stafford smiled. 

“Hard hit about her; and harder hit be- 
cause it was a plunge to go into it at all.” 

“ You’re quite right.” 

“ Of course I can’t go into that side of it 
very much, but I think I know more or less 
how you feel.” 

“ I really think you do. It surprises me.” 

“Yes. But, Stafford, may I go on taking 
liberties ? ” 

“ I believe you are my friend. Let us put 
that sort of question out of the way. Why 
have you come ? ” 


LO VER ’S FA TE AND FRIEND 'S CO UNSEL. 2 2 1 

u What does he mean by saying lie’s uneasy 
about you ? ” 

“ It’s the old fellow’s love for me.” 

Ayre was silent for a moment. Then he 
asked abruptly : 

“ What are you going to do ? ” 

“ I have * hardly had time to look round 
yet.” 

“ Why should it make any difference to 
you ? ” 

Stafford was puzzled. He thought Ayre 
had really recognized the state of his mind. 
He was inclined to think so still. But how, 
then, could he ask such a question ? 

“ You’ve had your holiday,” Ayre went on 
calmly, “ and a precious bad use you’ve made 
of it. Why not go back to work now ?” 

“ As if nothing had happened ? ” This was 
the very suggestion he had made to himself, 
and scornfully rejected. 

“ You think you’re utterly smashed, of 
course — I know what a facer it can be — and 
you’re just the man to take it very hard. 
Stafford, I’m sorry.” And with a sudden 
impulse he held out his hand. 

Stafford grasped it. The sympathy almost 
broke him down. “ She is all the world to 
me,” he said. 


222 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Aye, but be a man. You have your work 
to do.” 

“No, I have no work to do. I threw all 
that away.” 

“ I expected you’d say that.” 

“ I know, of course, what you think of it. 
In your view, that vow of mine was nonsense 
— a part of the high-falutin’ way I took 
everything in. Isn’t that so ?” 

“I didn’t come here to try and persuade 
you to think as I do about such things. I am 
not so fond of my position that I need prose- 
lytize. But I want you to look into yours.” 

“ Mine is only too clear. I have given up 
everything and got nothing. It’s this way : 
all the heart is out of me. If I went back to 
my work I should be a sham.” 

“ I don’t see that. May I smoke ? ” 

He lighted a cigar, and sat quiet for a few 
seconds. 

“ I suppose,” he resumed, “ you still believe 
what you used to teach ? ” 

“ Certainly ; that is — yes, I believe it. But 
it isn’t part of me as it was.” 

“ Ah ! but you think it’s true ? ” 

“ I remain perfectly satisfied with the dem- 
onstration of its truth — only I have lost the 
faith that is above knowledge,” 


L O VI'. R 'S FATE A AID FRIEND ’ .9 CO UNSE L. 223 

It was evidently only with an effort that 
Ayre repressed a sarcasm. Stafford saw his 
difficulty. 

“ You don’t follow that ? ” 

“ I have heard it spoken of before. But, 
after all, it’s beside the point. You believe 
the things so that, as far as honesty goes, you 
could still teach them ?” 

“ Certainly I should believe every dogma I 
taught.” 

“ Including the dogma that people ought to 
be good ?” 

“ Including that,” answered Stafford, with 
a smile. 

“ I don’t see what more you want,” said Sir 
Roderick, with an air of finality. 

Stafford felt himself, against his will, grow- 
ing more cheerful. In fact, it was a pleasure 
to him to exercise his brains once again, 
instead of being the slave of his emotions. 
Ayre had anticipated such a result from their 
conversation. 

“ Everything more,” he said. “ Personal 
holiness is at the bottom of it all.” 

“ The best thing, I dare say.” Ayre con- 
ceded. “ But indispensable ? Besides, you 
have it.” 

“ Never again.” 


224 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“Yes, I say — in all essentials.” 

“ I can’t do it. Ah, Ayre ! it’s all empty to 
me now.” 

“ For God’s sake, be a man ! Is there 
nothing on earth to be but a saint or a 
husband ? ” 

Stafford looked at him inquiringly. 

“ Heavens, man ! have you no ambition ? 
Here you are, with ten men’s brains, and you 
sit — I don’t know how you sit — in sackcloth, 
clearly, but whether for heaven or for Claudia 
I don’t know. You think it odd to hear me 
preach ambition ? I’m a lazy devil ; but I 
have some power. Yes, I’m in my way a 
power. I might have been a greater. You 
might be a greater than ever I could.” 

Stafford listened. 

u Do good if you can,” Ayre went on, “ and 
you can. But do something. Don’t throw 
up the sponge because you had one fall. 
Make yourself something to live for.” 

“In the Church ? ” 

“Yes — that suits you best. Your own 
Church or another. I’ve often wondered why 
you don’t try the other.” 

“ I’ve been very near trying it before now.” 

“ It’s a splendid field. Glorious ! You 
might do anything.” 


LO VER 'S FA TE AND FRIEND 'S CO UNSEL. 2 25 


• Stafford was silent, and Ayre sat regarding 


him closely. 


“ Use my office for personal ambition ? ” he 
asked at last. 

“ Pray don’t talk cant. Do some good 
* work, and raise yourself high enough to do 
more.” 

“ I doubt that motive.” 

“ Never mind the motive. Do, man, do ! 
and don’t puke. Leave Eugene to lounge 
through life. He does it nicely. You’re 


made for more.” 



Stafford looked up at him as he laid a hand 


on his shoulder. 

“ It’s all misery,” he said. 

“ Now, yes. But not always.” 

“ And it’s not what I meant.” 

“ No, you meant to be a saint. Many of 
us do.” 

“ I feel what you mean, but I have scru- 



Ayre looked at him curiously. 

“You’re not a man of scruples really,” he 
said ; “you’ll get over them,” 

“ Is that a compliment ?” 

“ Depends on whom you ask. You’ll think 
of it ? Think of what you might do and be. 


Now, I’m off.” 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


3*6 

.Stafford rose to show him out. 

“ I’m not sure whether I ought to thank 
you,” he said. 

“ You will think of it?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ And you won’t kill yourself without see- 
ing me again ? ” 

‘‘You were afraid of that?” 

“Yes. Was I wrong?” 

“ No.” 

“You won’t, then, without seeing me 
again ? ” 

“ No ; I promise.” 

Ayre found his way downstairs, and into 
the street. 

“ It will work,” he said to himself. “If the 
Humane Society did its duty, I should have 
a gold medal. I have saved a life to-night — 
and a life worth saving.” 

And Stafford, instead of going to bed, sat 
in his chair again, pondering the new things 
in his heart. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SOME PEOPLE ARE AS FORTUNATE AS THEY 
DESERVE TO BE. 

Eugene Lane had been rather puzzled by 
Claudia’s latest proceedings. On the morrow 
of her interview with Stafford he had received 
from her an incoherent note, in which she 
took grave blame to herself for “ this unhappy 
occurrence,” and intimated that it would be 
long before she could bear to discuss any 
question pending between herself and her cor- 
respondent. Eugene was not disposed to 
acquiesce in this decision. He had done as 
much as honor and friendship demanded, and 
saw no reason why his own happiness should 
be longer delayed ; for he had little doubt that 
Stafford’s rebuff meant his own success. He 
could not, however, persist in seeking Claudia 
after her declaration of unwillingness to be 
sought ; and he departed from Territon Park 
in some degree of dudgeon. All this sort of 
thing seemed to him to have a touch of the 
theater about it. But Claudia took it seri- 
ously ; she did not forbid him to write to her, 
but she answered none of his letters, and Lord 
Rickmansworth, whom he encountered at one 


227 


228 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


of the October race-meetings, gave him to 
understand that she was living a life of seclu- 
sion at Territon Park. Rickmansworth openly 
scoffed at this behavior, and Eugene did not 
know whether to be pleased at finding his 
views agreed with, or angry at hearing his 
mistress’s whims treated with fraternal dis- 
respect. Ultimately, he found himself, under 
the influence of lunch, coinciding with Rick- 
mansworth’s dictum that girls rather liked 
making fools of themselves, and .that Claudia 
was no better than the rest. It was one of 
Eugene’s misfortunes that he could not cherish 
illusions about his friends, unless his feeling 
toward Stafford must be ranked as an illusion. 
About the latter he had heard nothing, except 
for a short note from Sir Roderick, telling him 
that no tragedy of a violent character need 
now be feared. He- was anxious to see Ayre 
and learn what had passed, but that gentleman 
had also vanished to recruit at a German bath 
after his arduous labors. 

It was mid-November before any progress 
was made in the matter.' Eugene was in 
London, and so were very many people, for 
Parliament met in the autumn that year, and 
the season before Christmas was more active 
than usual. He had met Haddington about 


FOR TUNA TE PEOPLE . 229 

the House, and congratulated' him with a fer- 
vor and sincerity that had made the recip- 
ient of his blessings positively uneasy. Why 
should Lane be so uncommonly glad to get rid 
of Kate ? thought the happy man who had 
won her from him. It really looked as if there 
were something more than met the eye. 
Eugene detected this idea in Haddington’s 
mind, and it caused him keen amusement. 
Kate also he had encountered, and their meet- 
ing had been marked by the ceremonious friend- 
ship demanded by the circumstances. The 
flavor of diplomacy imparted to private life by 
these episodes had not, however, been strong 
enough to prevent Eugene being very bored. 
He was growing from day to day less patient 
of Claudia’s invisibility, and he expressed his 
feeling very plainly one day to Rickmans- 
worth, whom he happened to encounter in the 
outer lobby, as the noble lord was finding his 
way to the unwonted haunt of the House of 
Lords, thereto attracted by a debate on the 
proper precautions it behooved the nation to 
take against pleuro-pneumonia. 

“Surprising,” he said, “what interesting 
subjects the old buffers get hold of now and 
then ! Come and hear ’em, old man.” 

“The Lord forbid!” said Eugene. “But 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


230 

I want to say a word to you, Rick, about 
Claudia. I can’t stand this much longer.” 

“ I wouldn’t,” said Rickmansworth, “ if I 
were you ; but it isn’t my fault.” 

“It’s absurd treating me like this because 
of Stafford’s affair.” 

“Well, why don’t you go and call in 
Grosvenor Square? She’s there with Aunt 
Julia.” 

“ I will. Do you think she’ll see me ?” 

“ My dear fellow, I don’t know ; only if I 
wanted to see a girl, I bet she’d see me.” 

Eugene smiled at his friend’s indomitable 
self-confidence, and let him fly to the arms 
of pleuro-pneumonia. He then dispensed with 
his own presence in his branch of the Legis- 
lature, and took his way toward Grosvenor 
Square, where Lord Rickman sworth’s town 
house was. 

Lady Claudia was not at home. She had 
gone with her aunt earlier in the day to give 
Mr. Morewood a sitting. Mr. Morewood was 
painting her portrait. 

“ I expect they’ve stayed to tea. I haven’t 
seen old Morewood for no end of a time. 
Gad ! I’ll go to tea.” 

And he got into a hansom and went, won- 
dering with some amusement how Claudia had 


FORTUNATE PEOPLE. 231 

persuaded Morewood to paint her. It turned 
out, however, that the transaction was of a 
purely commercial character. Rickmansworth, 
having been very successful at the race-meet- 
ing above referred to, had been minded to 
give his sister a present, and she had chosen 
her own head on a canvas. The price offered 
was such that Morewood could not refuse ; but 
he had in the course of the sitting greatly 
annoyed Claudia by mentioning incidentally 
that her face did not interest him and was, 
in fact, such a face as he would never have 
painted but for the pressure of penury. 

“ Why doesn’t it interest you?” asked she, 
in pardonable irritation. 

“ I don’t know. It’s — but I dare say it’s 
my fault,” he replied, in that tone which 
clearly implies the opposite of what is asserted. 

“ It must be, I think,” said Claudia gently. 
“You see, it interests so many people, Mr. 
Morewood.” 

“ Not artists.” 

“ Dear me ! no ! ” 

“ Whom then ? ” 

“ Oh, the nobility and gentry.” 

“ And clergy ? ” 

A shadow passed across her face — but a 
fleeting shadow. 


232 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“You paint very slowly,” she said. 

“ I do when I am not inspired. I hate 
painting young 1 women.” 

“Oh! Why?” 

“ They’re not meant to be painted ; they’re 
meant to be kissed.” 

“ Does the one exclude the other? ” 

“ That’s for you to say,” said Morewood, 
with a grin. 

“ I think they’re meant to be painted by 
some people, and kissed by other people. Let 
the cobbler stick to his last, Mr. Morewood.” 

“ I wonder if you’ll stick to your last,” said 
Morewood. 

Claudia decided that she had better not see 
this joke, if the contemptible quip could be so 
called. It was very impertinent, and she had 
no retort ready. She revenged herself by 
declaring her sitting at an end, and inviting 
herself and her aunt to stay to tea. 

“ I’ve got no end of work to do,” More- 
wood protested. 

“Surely tea is compris f ” she asked, with 
raised eyebrows. “We shan’t stay more than 
an hour.” 

Morewood groaned, but ordered tea. After 
all, it was too dark to paint, and — well, she 
was amusing. 


FORTUNATE PEOPLE. 


2 33 


Eugene arrived almost at the same moment 
as tea. Morewood was glad to see him, and 
went as near showing it as he ever did. Lady 
Julia received hin\ with effusion, Claudia with 
dignity. 

“ I have pursued you from Grosvenor 
Square, Lady Julia,” he said. “ I didn’t come 
to see old Morewood, you know.” 

“As much as to see me, I dare say,” said 
Lady Julia in an aside. 

Eugene protested with a shake of the head, 
and Morewood carried him off to have such 
inspection of the picture as artificial light could 
afford. 

“You’ve got her very well.” 

“ Yes, pretty well. It’s a bright little shal- 
low face.” 

“ Go to the devil ! ” said Eugene, in strong 
indignation. 

“ I only said that to draw you. There is 
something in the girl — but not overmuch, you 
know.” 

“ There’s all I want.” 

“ Oh, I should think so ! Heard anything 
of Stafford ? ” 

“ No, except that he’s gone off somewhere 
alone again. He wrote to Ayre ; Ayre told 
me. He and Ayre are very thick now,” 


2 34 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ A queer combination.” 

“Yes. I wonder what they’ll make of one 
another ! ” 

More wood was a good-natured man at 
bottom, and after a few minutes’ more talk he 
carried off Aunt Julia to look at his etchings. 

“So I have run you down at last? ’’said 
Eugene to Claudia. 

“ I told you I didn’t want to see you.” 

“ I know. But that was a month ago.” 

“ I was very much upset.” 

“ So was I, awfully ! ” 

“Do you think it was my fault, Mr. 
Lane ? ” 

“ Not a bit. So far as it was anybody’s 
fault, it was mine.” 

“ How yours ? ” 

“Well, you see, he thought ” 

“Yes, I see. You needn’t go on. He 
thought you were out of the question, and 
therefore ” 

“Now, Lady Claudia, are you going to 
quarrel again ? ” 

“ No, I don’t think so. Only you are so 
annoying. Is he in great trouble ?” 

“ He was. I think he ? s better now. But it 
was a terrible blow to him, as it would be tq 
any one.” 


FORTUNATE PEOPLE. 


235 


‘‘To you ? ” 

“ It would be death ! ” 

“Nonsense!” said Claudia. “What is he 
going to do ? ” 

“ I don’t know. I think he will go back to 
work.” 

“ I never intended any harm.” 

“ You never do.” 

“ You mean I do it ? Pray don’t try to be 
desperate and romantic, Mr. Lane. It’s not 
in your line.” 

“ It’s curious I can never get credit for deep 
feeling. I have spent a miserable month.” 

“ So have I.” 

“ Because I could see not the person I love 
best in the world.” 

“ Ah ! that wasn’t my reason.” 

“ Claudia, you must give me an answer.” 

Claudia rose, and joined her aunt and More- 
wood. She gave Eugene no further oppor- 
tunity for private conversation, and soon after 
the ladies took their leave. As Eugene shook 
hands with Claudia, he said : 

“ May I call to-morrow ?” 

“ You are a little unkind ; but you may.” 
And she rapidly passed on to Morewood, and 
with much sparring made an appointment for 
her next sitting. 


236 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ Why does she fence so with me ? ” he 
asked the painter, as he took his hat. 

“What’s the harm ? You know you enjoy 
it.” 

44 1 don’t.” 

But it is very possible he did. 

The next day Eugene took advantage of 
Claudia’s permission. He went to Grosvenor 
Square, and asked boldly for Lady Claudia. 
He was shown into the drawing-room. After 
a time Claudia came to him. 

“ I have come for my answer,” he said, 
taking her hand. 

Claudia was looking grave. 

“You know the answer,” she said. “It 
must be ‘Yes.’ ” 

Eugene drew her to him and kissed her. 

“But you say ‘Yes’ as if it gave you 
pain.” 

“ So it does, in a way.” 

“You don’t like being conquered even by 
your own prisoner? ” 

“It’s not that; that is, I think, rather a 
namby-pamby feeling. At any rate, I don’t 
feel it.” 

“ What is it, then ? You don’t care enough 
for me ?” 

“Ah, I care too much !” she cried. “ Eu- 


FORTUNATE PEOPLE. 


237 


gene, I wish I could have loved Father Stafford, 
and not you.” 

“ Why so ? ” 

“ I was at the very center of his life. I don’t 
think I am more than on the fringe of yours.” 

“ A very priceless fringe to a very worth- 
less fabric ! ” said he, kissing her hand. 

“Yes,” she answered, with a smile, “you 
are perfect in that. You might give lessons in 
amatory deportment.” 

• “Out of a full heart the mouth speaketh.” 

“ Ah ! does it ? May not a lover be too 
point-de-vice in his speeches as well as in his 
accouterments? Father Stafford came to me 
pale, yes, trembling, and with rugged words.” 

“ I am not the man that Stafford is — save 
for my lady’s favor.” 

“ And you came in confidence ?” 

“ You had let me hope.”* 

“You have known it for along while. I 
don’t trust you, you know, but I must. Will 
you treat me as you treated Kate ? ” 

“ Slander ! ” cried he gayly. “ I didn’t 
‘ treat’ Kate. Kate ‘treated’ me.” 

“ Poor fellow ! ” 

He had sat down in a low chair close to 
hers, and she bent down and kissed him on the 
forehead. 


238 


FATHER STAFFORD. 


“ At least, I don’t think you’ll like any one 
better than you like me, and I must be content 
with that.” 

“ I have worshiped you for years. Was 
ever beauty so exacting* ?” 

“ With lucid intervals?” 

“ Never a moment. A sense of duty once 
led me astray — dynastic considerations — a suit- 
able cousin.” 

“Yes ; and I suppose a moonlight night.” 

“ Pereant quae ante le ! You know a little 
Latin ? ” 

“ I think I’d better not just now.” 

“You may want it for yourself, you know, 
with a change of gender. But we’ll not bandy 
recriminations.” 

“ I wasn’t joking.” 

“ Not when you began ; but with me all 
your troubles shalT end in jokes, and every tear 
in a smile. Claudia, I never knew you so 
alarmingly serious before.” 

“Well, I won’t be serious any more. The 
fatal deed is done ! ” 

“ And I may say ‘ Claudia’ now without 
fear of any one ? ” 

“You will be able to say it for about the 
next fifty years. I hope you won’t get tired of 
it. Eugene, try to get tired of me last of all,'’ 


FORTUNATE PEOPLE. 


239 


“ Never while I live ! You are a perpetual 
refresh ment.” 

“ A lofty function ! ” 

“ And the spring of all my life. Let us 
be happy, dear, and never mind fifty years 
hence.” 

“ I will,” she said ; “and I am happy.” 

“ And, please God, you shall always be so. 
One would think it was a very dangerous thing 
to marry me ! ” 

“ I will brave the danger.” 

“ There is none. I have found my god- 
dess.” 

The door opened suddenly, and Bob Terri- 
ton entered at the very moment when Eugene 
was sealing his vow of homage. Bob was 
pleased to be playful. Holding his hands be- 
fore his face, he turned and pretended to 

fly- 

“ Come in, old man,” cried Eugene, “ and 
congratulate me ! ” 

“ Oh ! you have fixed it, have you ? ” 

“ We have. Don’t you think we shall do 
very well together?” 

Bob stood regarding them, his hands in his 
pockets. 

“ Yes,” he said at length, “ I think you 
will. There’s a pair of you.” 


240 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


And he could never be persuaded to explain 
this utterance. But it is to be feared that the 
thought underlying it was one not over-compli- 
mentary to the happy lovers. And Bob knew 
them both very well. 


CHAPTER XV. 

AN END AND A BEGINNING. 

When Sir Roderick Ayre returned to Eng- 
land, he had to undergo much questioning con- 
cerning his dealings with Stafford. It had some- 
how become known throughout the little group 
of people interested in Stafford’s abortive love- 
affair that he and Ayre had held conference 
together, and the impression was that Ayre’s 
counsel had, to some extent at least, shaped 
Stafford’s resolution and conduct. Ayre did 
not talk freely on the matter. He fenced with 
the idle inquiries of the Territon brothers ; he 
calmed Mrs. Lane’s solicitude with soothing 
words ; he put Morewood off with a sneer at 
the transitoriness of love-affairs in general. 
To Eugene he spoke more openly, and did 
not hesitate to congratulate himself on the 
part he had taken in reconciling Stafford to 
life and work. Eugene cordially agreed with 
his point of view ; and Ayre felt that he was 
in a fair way to be rid of the matter, when 
one day Claudia sprang upon him with a new 
assault. 

He had come to see her, and tender hearty 
congratulations. He felt that the successful 

241 


242 FA THKR STAFFORD. 

issue of Eugene’s suit was in some degree his 
own work, and he was well pleased that his 
two favorites should have taken to one an- 
other. Moreover, he reaped intellectual satis- 
faction from the fulfillment of a prophecy made 
when its prospects of realization seemed very 
scant. Claudia admitted her own pleasure in 
her engagement, and did not attempt to deny 
that her affection had dated from a period 
when by all the canons of propriety she should 
have had no thoughts of Eugene. 

“ We are not responsible for our emotions,” 
she said, laughing ; “ and you will admit I 
behaved with the utmost decorum.” 

“ About your usual decorum,” he replied. 
‘‘The situation was difficult.” 

“ It was indeed,” she sighed. “ Eugene 
was so very — well, reckless. But I want to 
ask you something.” 

“ Say on.” 

“ I heard about your interview with Father 
Stafford ; what did you say to him ? ” 

“ Of course Eugene has told you all I told 
him ? ” 

“ Probably. I told him to.” 

“ Well, that’s all.” 

“In fact, you told him I wasn’t worth 
fretting about ! ” 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


243 


“ Not in that personal way. I asserted a 
general principle, and reluctantly denied that 
you were an exception.” 

“ I hope you did tell him I wasn’t worth it, 
and very plainly. But hasn’t he gone back to 
his religious work ? ” 

“ I think he will.” 

“ Did you advise him to do that ?” 

“Yes, certainly. It’s what he’s most fit 
for, and I told him so.” 

“ He spoke to me as if — as if he had no 
religion left.” 

“Yes, it took him in that way. He’ll get 
over that.” 

“ I think you were wrong to tell him to go 
back. Didn’t you encourage him to go back 
to the work without feeling the religion ?” 

“ Perhaps I did. Did Eugene tell you that ?” 

“Yes.” 

“ I’ll never say anything to a lover again.” 

“ Didn’t you tell him to use his work for 
personal ends — for ambition, and so on ?” 

“Oh, in a way. I had to stir him up — I 
had to tide him over a bad hour.” 

“That was very wrong. It was teaching 
him to degrade himself.” 

“ He can pursue his work in perfect sin- 
cerity. I found that out.” 


244 FATHER STAFFORD. 

“Can he if he does it with a low motive?” 

“ My dear girl, whose motives are not 
mixed ? Whose heart is single ? ” 

“ His was once ! ” 

“ Before he met — you and me? I made the 
best job I could. I cemented the breakage ; 
I couldn’t undo it.” 

“ I would rather ” 

“ He’d picturesquely drown himself ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” she said, with a shudder ; “ but 
it lowers my ideal of him.” 

“ That, considering your position, is not 
wholly a bad thing.” 

“ Do you think he’s justified in doing it ? ” 

“ To tell the truth, I don’t see quite to 
the bottom of him. But he will do great 
things ” 

“Now he is well quit of me?” 

Sir Roderick smiled. 

“Well, I don’t like it.” 

“ Then you should have married him, and 
left Eugene to do the drowning.” 

“ Do you know, Sir Roderick, I rather 
doubt if Eugene would have drowned him- 
self ?” 

“ I don’t know ; he has very good man- 
ners.” 

They both laughed. 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


245 


“ But all the same, I am unhappy about 
Mr. ^Stafford.” 

“ Ah, your notions of other people’s 
morality are too exalted. I don’t accept 
responsibility for Stafford. He would not 
have followed my suggestion unless the idea 
had been in germ in his own mind.” 

Claudia’s pre-occupation with Stafford’s fate 
would have been somewhat disturbine to a 
lover less philosophical or less sympathetic 
than Eugene. As it was, he was pleased with 
her concern, and his sorrow for the trouble it 
occasioned her was mitigated by a conviction 
that its effect would not be permanent. In 
this idea he proved perfectly correct. As the 
weeks passed by and nothing was heard of the 
vanished man, his place in the lives of those 
who had been so intimately associated with 
him became filled with other interests, and 
from a living presence he dwindled to an 
occasional memory. It was as if he had really 
died. His name was nowand then mentioned 
with the sad affection we accord to those who 
have gone before us ; for the most part the 
thought of him was thrust out in the busy 
give-and-take of everyday life. Save for the 
absence of that bitter sense of hopelessness 
which the separation of death brings, Stafford 


246 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


might as well have passed on the road which, 
but for Ayre’s intervention, he had. marked 
out for himself. Claudia and Eugene were 
wrapped up in one another; their love for 
him, though not dead, was dormant, and his 
name was oftener upon the lips of Ayre and 
Morewood than of those who had been most 
closely united with him in the bonds of common 
experience. But Ayre and Morewood, besides 
entertaining a kindly memory of his personal 
charm, found delight in studying him as a 
problem. They were keenly interested in the 
upshot of his new start in life, and their blunter 
perceptions were deaf to the dissonance be- 
tween the ideal he had set before himself and 
the alternative Ayre had suggested for his 
adoption. Perhaps they were right. If none 
but saints may do the work of the world, much 
of its most useful work must go undone. 

Haddington and Kate Bernard were mar- 
ried before Christmas. Claudia deprecated 
such haste ; and Eugene willingly acquiesced 
in her wish to put off the date of their own 
union. He thought that being engaged to 
Claudia was a pleasant state of existence, and 
why hasten to change it ? Besides, as he sug- 
gested, they were not people of fickle mind, 
like Kate and Haddington (for, of course, 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 247 

Claudia had told him of Haddington’s pro- 
posal to herself — it is believed ladies always 
do tell these incidents), and could afford to 
wait. Eugene went to the wedding. He was 
strongly opposed to such foolish things as 
standing quarrels, and Kate was entirely 
charming in the capacity of somebody else’s 
wife : it is a comparatively easy part to fill, 
and he had no fault to find with her concep- 
tion of it. The magnificence of his wedding 
present smoothed his return to favor, and 
Kate had the good sense to accept the role 
he offered her, and allowed it to be supposed 
that she had been the faithless, he the for- 
saken, one ; whereas in reality, as Ayre re- 
marked, she had herself doubled the parts. 
Claudia judiciously avoided the question of 
her presence at the ceremony by a timely 
absence from London, and enjoyed only at 
second-hand the amusement Eugene derived 
from Haddington’s hesitation between triumph 
over his supposed rival, and doubt, which had 
in reality gained the better part. In spite of 
this doubt, it is allowable to hope for a very 
fair share of working happiness in the Had- 
dington household. Kate was hardly a woman 
to make a man happy ; but, on the other hand, 
she would not prevent him being happy if his 


248 


FATHER STAFFORD . 


bent lay in that direction. And Haddington 
was too entirely contented with himself to be 
other than happy. 

Eugene’s wedding was fixed for the Easter 
recess, and among the party gathered for the 
occasion at Millsteacl were most of those who 
had been his guests in the previous summer. 
The Haddingtons were not there — Kate re- 
torted Claudia’s evasion ; and of course Staf- 
ford’s figure was missing ; but the Territon 
brothers were there, and Morewood and Ayre, 
the former bringing with him the completed 
picture, which was Rickmansworth’s present to 
his sister. The party was to be enlarged the 
day before the wedding by a large company 
of relations of both their houses. 

The evening before this invasion was ex- 
pected, Eugene came down to dinner looking 
rather perturbed. He was a little silent during 
the meal, and when the ladies withdrew, he 
turned at once to Ayre : 

“ I have heard from Stafford.” 

“ Ah ! what does he say ? ” 

“ He has joined the Church of Rome.” 

“ I thought he would.” 

Morewood grunted angrily. 

“ Did you tell him to ? ” he asked Ayre. 

“No; I think I referred to it.” 


AN END AND A BEGINNING. 


249 


“ Do you suppose he’s honest ? ” More- 
wood went on. 

Why not ? ” asked Eugene. “ I could 
never make out why he didn’t go before. 
What do you say, Ayre ? ” 

Sir Roderick was a little troubled. This 
exact following of, or anyhow coincidence 
with, his advice seemed to cast a responsi- 
bility upon him. 

“ Oh, I expect he’s honest enough ; and it’s a 
splendid field for him,” he answered, repeating 
the argument he had urged to Stafford himself. 

“ Ayre,” said Morewood aggressively, 
“ you’ve driven that young man to perdition.” 

“ Bosh ! ” said Ayre. “ He’s not a sheep to 
be driven, and Rome isn’t perdition. I did no 
more than give his thoughts a turn.” 

“ I think I am glad,” said Eugene ; “ it is 
much better in some ways. But he must have 
gone through another struggle, poor fellow ! ” 

“ I doubt it,” said Ayre. 

“ Anyhow, it’s rather a score for those 
chaps,” remarked Rickmansworth. “ He’s a 
good fish to land.” 

“Yes, it will make a bit of a sensation,” 
assented Ayre. “We’ll see what the Bishop 
says when he comes to turn Eugene off. By 
the way, is it public property ?” 


250 ' FATHER STAFFORD. 

“It will be in* the papers, I expect, to- 
morrow. I wonder what they’ll say ! ” 

“ Everything but the truth.” 

“ By Jove, I hope so. And we alone know 
the secret history ! ” 

“Yes,” said Ayre ; “and you, Rick, will 
have to sit silent and hear the enemy triumph.” 

Lord Rickmansworth did not think it worth 
while to repudiate the odium theologicum imput- 
ed to him. Probably he knew he was in reality 
above the suspicion of caring for such things. 

“ Shall you tell Claudia ? ” Ayre asked 
Eugene, as they went upstairs. 

“Yes ; I shall show her his letter. I think 
I ought, don’t you ? ” 

“ Perhaps ; will you show it me ? ” 

“Yes; in fact he asks me to give you the 
news, as he is too occupied to write to you. 
The note is quite short, and, I think, studi- 
ously reserved.” 

He gave it to Ayre, who read it silently. It 
ran : 

Dear Eugene : 

A line to wish Lady Claudia and yourself all 
happiness and joy. Do not let your joy be shadowed 
by over kind thoughts of me. I am my own man 
again. You will see soon by the papers that I have 
taken the important step of being received into the 


AN END AND A BEGINNING . 251 

Catholic Church. I need not trouble you with an 
argument. I think I have done well, and hope to 
find there work for my hands to do. Pray give this 
news to Ayre, and with it my most warm and friendly 
remembrances. I would write but for my stress of 
work. He was a friend to me in my need. They 
are sending me to Rome for a time ; after that 
I hope I shall come to England, and renew my 
friendships. Good-by, old fellow, till then. I long 
for arjr 7 ayavcxppoZvr) non 60U ayaviS inaeGGiv. 

Yours always, 

C. S. 

“ That doesn’t tell one much, does it ?” 

“No,” said Ayre; “but we shall learn 
more if we watch him.” 

Claudia came up, and they gave her the 
note to read. 

She read it, asking to have the Greek trans- 
lated to her. Then she said to Ayre : 

“ What does it mean ? ” 

“ Why do you ask me ? ” 

“ Because you are most likely to know.” 

“ Mind, I may be wrong ; I may do him in- 
justice, but I think ” 

“ Yes ? ” she said impatiently. 

“ I think, Lady Claudia, you have spoilt a 
Saint and made a Cardinal ! ” 













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